


Occupation in June

by dizzymonarchs



Category: Suite Française (2015)
Genre: Curiosity, F/M, France (Country), Intrigue, Love/Hate, Masochism, Nazis, Self-Discovery, War, World War II
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2020-11-12
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:55:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 38,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24295453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dizzymonarchs/pseuds/dizzymonarchs
Summary: He should have died. He should have been buried six feet under, and all their secrets along with him. But there he stood, glaring at her from across the square.
Relationships: Kurt Bonnet x Original Character
Comments: 18
Kudos: 33





	1. I. Lotus Farm

i. Author's Note

I write this from a place of depravity, one from which I am currently attempting to extricate myself.

My relationship with men as a whole has, up until this point, been one of lust and loss, never love. Starting out with a particularly bad example as a girl of three, I was taught that men are beasts who seek their own sexual gratification above all. Even today, I feel like every man is simply biding his time until he can show his "truer nature" and satisfy his desires. Even those men who "portray" themselves as innocuous are waiting for an opportunity to strike. In my heart of hearts, I believe there is no good man.

I know this is my own perversion of the truth based on what I learned at a young age and how I interpreted it, but I've only recently found out that this way of thinking formed the bedrock of my interactions with the opposite sex. It affects how I view myself, how I talk, how I experience pleasure, everything.

This story was birthed in that place of skewed perceptions, and though I discovered this about myself halfway through writing it, I still completed it just as I would have. Not because some part of me doesn't still enjoy these sort of scenarios on a base level despite knowing where it comes from (because I do), but because I wanted to fully delve into all the facets of this twisted mind. It's like knowing that a person is bad for you because of x, y, and z, but you're still attracted to their type anyway. It's innate, and it takes a lot of mental energy to change. I don't mean to make anyone feel uncomfortable for enjoying this sort of story and I'm not shaming anyone's tastes, but I thought I'd be upfront and honest in my aims for writing it.

It is only in naming our demons that we can banish them to hell where they belong.

* * *

ii. Preface

The inspiration for this story came from the long Provençal poem Mirèio by Frédéric Mistral, an Occitan writer. It tells the story of two lovers, Mirèio and Vincen, whose love is thwarted by their opposing social backgrounds. The poem is told in twelve cantos, some of which I have elected to borrow their titles from to name the chapters.

There really is no similarity in storytelling or plot between Mistral's poetry and this piece, but a part of me really wanted to bring his beautiful work to the fore. That, and his romantic descriptions of the French countryside during a beautiful summer transported me to another place and time. Even the poem's dedication breathes a wistful tone,

"To you, I dedicate Mirèio: It is my heart and my soul; It is the flower of my years; It is a bunch of grapes from La Crau, leaves and all, a peasant's offering."

May this story bring you a thrill, a peace, or nothing at all; the choice is yours entirely.

* * *

I. Falabrego Mas / Lotus Farm

Sunday, June 16th, 1940

"And if, Mireio, thou couldst see before thee,

As we from empyrean heights of glory,

This world; and what a sad and foolish thing

Is all its passion for the perishing…"

It was in the harsh, beaming light of day that Mireille paused to bring a sluggish hand to her glistening brow. Her shoulders ached, and the sweat slid sweetly down the center of her back, disappearing somewhere into the waistline of her skirt. She prayed for reprieve, but that wouldn't come until the light dipped low beyond the horizon. No, her work would continue for some hours yet.

It was shearing time once again, an arduous task that required all the help one could get. Luckily, her family's neighbors were generous folk offering their help freely. Her own family would give their aid in turn in the coming days during the haymaking. Well, really just she and her sister would be helping. Honorine had just reached her twelfth summer and was thus old enough to contribute her share. Mother would remain behind as she often did to manage the daily household chores that she spared the girls.

Mireille, for her part, didn't mind the work, grueling as it was. She had grown used to the callouses that marred her hands and the crick that never truly left her neck. It was honest work, and she knew Mother couldn't do it. Not because the woman's body was frail. Indeed, Clotilde Marveaux was stronger than Mireille herself, her arms sturdy and sure. It was her mind that worried Mireille.

Summer 1930. Father's last season of life. He had been consumed by the wasting disease. Mireille had been eleven at the time, and she couldn't understand why he wouldn't get up any more. He had always been so full of life, so loud. And yet there he laid, quiet and still.

Her mother had wailed when he finally left. Morning and night for a whole day. Mireille didn't even think she took a breath. She'd had to care for Honorine then, and she hadn't really ever stopped. Mother was full of love, but sometimes her love wasn't… practical.

It was odd to think there was a war on. Why hadn't anybody told the bees to stop buzzing and the wind to stop blowing? Such commonplace things shouldn't carry on. Vestiges of bygone peaceful days, empty and hollow when she knew death was beating down their door. But the world carried on just the same.

It didn't do to listen to the radio, though Mother insisted they should put it on every night so that she could keep up with current events. Mireille saw no point to it. The Germans would be in Bussy before long. She could only pray they wouldn't steal their food or shoot them on sight. But she would think on those things later. Another time, another day, or never.

Mireille snapped the trimmers on again, causing the sheep to let out a distressed round of bleats.

Rainer, a large, 8-year-old Great Pyrenees, lifted his head from where he lay on the ground to see what the commotion was about. The poor thing was suffering in the heat of these summer days with all of that fur, but Mireille did the best she could to keep him brushed. She often considered taking the clippers to his fur instead of the sheep's wool.

"Rodolphe!" She called to one of the local village boys lending a hand, "That one there, she'll be next."

He lifted his head wearily, strands of dark brown hair clinging to his forehead with sweat and chocolate brown eyes begging reprieve, "You're an absolute slavedriver, woman. Not even a long enough rest to get my breath back?"

Mireille leveled a derisive stare at him, "That's Mademoiselle Marveaux to you, not 'woman'. And you'd better enjoy what short rests I give you, or else you can kiss your supper goodbye."

He looked crestfallen for a moment, but when he looked up at her again, she saw him trying to hide a smile, a faint redness coloring his cheeks, "Heaven knows I'm only here for the supper, Mademoiselle." She quite thought he meant something else entirely.

For goodness' sake, Rodolphe was fifteen, and though Mireille knew he would grow into a fine man one day, he was five years her junior. He hadn't a chance, but it still brought a touch to her heart to see the daringness of youth.

With a huff of her breath to keep a stray champagne-colored lock out of her eye, Mireille set back down to the task at hand—wrangling the wayward sheep to meet with a pair of shears. War or no, there was work to be done.

* * *

The deluge came at noon the next day. Sunday, the Day of the Lord. Had these people no decency?

One moment she was there in the pew listening to the priest extol the virtues of chastity and fortitude in the face of any adversary and the next she was standing in the square with the barrel of a tank aimed over her head. They fell together in line so neatly, Mireille figured it must've been rehearsed. The synchronized beating of boots on gravel sounded the death knell. This was the hour of their defeat. And God, the smoke!

The parade halted, and one car pulled out ahead of the rest near the square center.

"Under the authority and the signature of Maréchal Pétain," a trim, younger man shouted through a megaphone. She couldn't see his face, but she could feel the smugness radiating off of him. Every word spoken was another dagger into the heart of the French people, and he reveled in it, "A new constitution of the French state is signed, guaranteeing the rights of labor, of family, and of the fatherland. You are defeated, and we are now in charge."

Mireille huffed at that. Arrogant prick.

"All firearms must be surrendered to German headquarters tomorrow morning. As our Führer writes, the sword will become our plow, and from the tears of war the daily bread of future generations will grow. Those who have been billeted an officer should return home and prepare for their arrival."

Officers? In their homes? Surely there was a better place for them. Like a pig sty… Or the gallows.

"Come, Mireille," her mother breathed in a warning tone, sensing the rising uneasiness amongst the crowd. A tug on her sleeve signaled Honorine's presence beside her, worried and fretting. Mother placed a calming hand on the girl's shoulder and then guided her away. Mireille gladly followed.

Only once they were down the lane and free from the prying eyes and ears of any observers did Mireille open her mouth to speak.

"How could they do that?" she whispered furiously. Her mother shot her a glare of warning.

"I'm only saying if they had any decency, they would pitch their tents in an open field and leave us be," she clarified.

"You ask too much," her mother replied.

"How is that too much?" Mireille fired back, "They have taken our capital, our government, our land. And now they would have us open our parlors to them. It's mania!"

"Such is the way of the conqueror."

"Must we bow so readily?"

"Who's bowing?" Honorine chimed in, "I'm not bowing. I would never!"

Mireille couldn't help but laugh and reach out to draw her sister closer.

"And I would never let you, Germans be damned!" she vowed, too dramatically for her mother's tastes.

"You wouldn't be saying such nonsense if they were within earshot."

"And neither would you, Mother. There, a spade's a spade," Mireille paused to step in front of her sister and draw her in close, "Remember, Hon, no matter how ordinary they look or how civil they might act, they are still the enemy. They are not our friends, and they never will be."

"I will," she promised, eyes wide in fear.

"I don't mean to scare you, but you are old enough to understand the world as it is." Honorine nodded solemnly in response, and Mireille grabbed her hand to tuck it underneath her arm, "We must be strong for each other. That's the only way we'll make it through," she concluded.

Mother's bright smile cut through the tension.

"What have I done to deserve such wise girls?" she beamed. Her eyes were sharp and alert, Mireille noted. Good.

It was when night fell too early in her eyes—that was when Mireille knew to bring Honorine out from the house for a long walk. Mother needed her time alone then. Time alone to dance with the ghosts of summers gone by.

* * *

"What do you mean we're to have an officer here?" her mother asked, indignant. Mireille spotted the worry as it wormed its way into her shoulder blades and made her neck erect.

For his part, the soldier assigned to the task of informing citizens of their billeting status remained unfazed. He was probably used to the dirty looks and ill wishes by now. Mireille stepped in before her mother violated his patience again.

"We only mean that our home is not a suitable enough accommodation for an individual of such a high rank. I imagine he would have to have only the best living arrangements, not a farmhouse five kilometers from town," she placated.

"It has been considered, madame," he responded with a weary glance to their living quarters, "But such are the arrangements as they stand. Any complaints may be taken to the Headquarters stationed in the town square. Good day."

With a click of his heels, he was off. Mireille stared openly out at him, aghast, as he marched down the lane. She turned to look incredulously at Mother and Honorine.

"Fucking Germans."

"Mireille!" her mother scolded. Honorine squirmed.

"What do we do now?" she asked.

"We wait," Mireille answered, "We tidy, and we wait."


	2. II. The Cocooning

II. La Descoucounado / The Cocooning

Sunday, June 16th, 1940

"And thou, sweet virgin, whither goest thou?

With step unfaltering and untroubled brow,

Martha her cross and holy-water carried

Against the dragon dire, and never tarried."

They had done as she said: tidied and waited. The house was cleaner than it had been in years, scraped clean of any possible neglect. Mother was a good housekeeper, but her eyes were beginning to fail her.

Their home was of the older sort. Pale yellow stone walls met a thatched wooden roof that should have been replaced a century ago. The house was flanked on all sides by greenery—a portion for gardening, vegetables and the like; two of the three sides were covered in creeping vine and overgrown bushes, all flowering in the hot summer wind; and the rest comprised the farm itself.

The kitchen was by far the most well-kept area, a large wooden table and chairs in the center. The rest of the house was filled to the brim with knick-knacks and heirlooms from every generation of Marveaux spanning back to the dawn of time. It made for a cozy atmosphere, if one could find space to sit between all of the lamps, figurines, and wall-hangings. When Mireille had suggested the family sell off some of the antiques to generate a bit more income and stock up to weather the coming storm, Mother had looked as though she were about to strike. Mireille never dared to bring it up again.

Rising from her seat in front of a cracked mirror, Mireille made to put on her dressing gown. It was a soft white garment made of linen, a hand-me-down from her aunt who lived south of Paris, torn and mended more times than Mother's handiwork could hide. A tiny hint of luxury in a life otherwise full of drudgery and hard work.

The day had been long and the sun had begun to dip lower in the horizon, but despite the early evening hour, she knew a good deal of work remained. Better that she wasn't there to greet their guest when he arrived, but despite Mother seeming to be in her right mind, Mireille couldn't leave it up to chance lest a choice word slip through the older woman's lips.

Opening her window to let the warm summer wind carry the stuffiness out of the room, she paused to feel the breeze pass over her face, little wisps of her hair blowing with it. She closed her eyes, savoring the feeling and rested her arms on the sill. The air smelled like wildflowers and weeds, and the sound of cicadas hummed all around. This was peace amidst war. Several moments passed, and she was lost to the season.

Fearing she would fall asleep in her current position, Mireille stirred and opened her eyes once more.

There. A dozen paces down the lane. A man.

A Nazi, she thought sourly. He was quite trim in his uniform and of an average build. She could not make out anything remarkable about him whatsoever. Nothing, that is, except his stare. Lips pursed, eyes steady, and feet firm. He was watching her.

"Monsieur, you're here!" Her mother shouted from below with a swing of the kitchen's door.

She focused, eyes widening in apprehension.

 _The Nazi. Shit_.

Mireille scrambled away from the windowsill, drawing the dressing gown tight around her neck.

A fucking Nazi on her front step, and he had seen her in her dressing clothes! He had watched her for Lord knows how long. A pretty portrait in a gallery for his private viewing. She felt filthy.

She was fully redressed and down the stairs in a cinch even though every bone in her body wanted to launch herself back into bed and draw the covers over her head. But she knew better than anyone that hiding from the world did little good, and the world was at her door.

"Mama!" she called, rushing though the kitchen. Was she already greeting him? Alone?

Honorine came into the room at the same time, curiosity written over her countenance. The sisters exchanged a bewildered look but turned to the front door as a conversation carried through.

"Welcome to our home, Monsieur," Mother said with a curtsy. The stranger was past the doorway, just out of sight. Mireille snapped her fingers and pointed to the ground at her feet to signal that her sister should follow closely. Then she straightened her dress, smoothed her hair, and stepped out.

Fury should always be met with grace.

* * *

He was a shifty character, that much she knew.

After entering their home, he refused to make eye contact with her for any longer than was absolutely necessary, and she had actually thought him embarrassed after their initial encounter. He took time to lavish his praises of the home on their mother, to whom he referred to as 'Madame' will all the politeness and ingratiation one might expect of an escaped convict entering refuge at last. He was truly thankful for the effort they had put into readying the quarters and even seemed a tad mortified.

But something about him gave Mireille pause. Respect or no, something did not sit right with her. He was too watchful, too quiet. Too subdued.

There was much more to him than he was revealing, but she supposed there would be plenty of time for him to misstep. He was living in their home, after all. She would have to keep Honorine and Mother clear of him as much as she could. There were always animals that needed feeding, waste that needed mucking, and soil that needed turning—these activities could keep Honorine occupied from sunrise until twilight. Mother would be the greater challenge.

Mireille watched him like a snake poised to strike.

He meandered around the living areas without much ado, taking everything in with a sort of silent intention. She wouldn't have been surprised if he had raised a finger to swipe for dust on their fireplace.

Instead he refrained, offering the odd compliment. Mother flitted after him like a blushing maiden, choosing to receive the man's approbation as they walked here and there. Mireille laid a steady hand on Honorine's shoulder to keep her in place in the doorway. When the couple was far enough away, she bent down to whisper in her sister's ear.

"To your room."

"What?" she let out an indignant huff, but seeing the look on her sister's face quieted her tone, "He's only just arrived."

"And he'll be with us for some time yet, but that's neither here nor there," she countered, "To your room."

Honorine sighed once more and turned to retreat up the staircase in a trudge. Satisfied, Mireille turned back to face the scene.

He was watching her again, like he had in the lane. Far too intently for her liking. It lasted for only a moment.

Ducking his head, he exited the sitting room and entered the hallway, Mother in tow.

She had seen something in his gaze, harsh though it was: a glint of amusement. She could swear it. He found them laughable for the pains they had taken to scrape up the old house to Mother's ebullience. He was laughing at them, the cad!

She seethed inwardly. Not that she had even wanted to make the house presentable for him, just as she hadn't wanted to leave her room after coming face to face with this man. But she had done just that because it was the right thing to do. And now he was mocking them. Albeit, quietly and only to himself, but Mireille could just picture him squawking with all of his Wehrmacht comrades—'can you believe how desperate they were?'

Mireille huffed, no better than her sister who was eight years her junior.

_He's gotten enough out of us._

With a sharp step, she was off in the direction they had disappeared but had to do a decent bit of walking before she emerged to find them in the upstairs hall.

"This one here, Monsieur," her mother indicated with a smile, pointing to the door at the end of the hall.

"Thank you for your kindness, Madame," he answered, a small smirk at the corner of his lips. She hated how fluidly he spoke, how the words were almost native to him. She had gathered that his name was Bonnet in their introductions. A French name.

He gave the room a once-over before turning to face her mother again, "I wonder if you might be able to—"

"Mother!" Mireille called. The pair turned to face her, Mother all wide eyes and beaming smile while the soldier looked perplexed at the interruption.

She stared back, at a loss for what to do now that she had their attention. She said the first words that came to her mind, "I wonder if you couldn't spare a moment?"

Mireille hated the desperate tone that tinged her words. He was a man after all, not a bear.

As soon as her mother's back was toward him, Mireille watched the most fascinating transformation. It was like his whole body relaxed, exonerated from the effort of maintaining a particularly heavy exterior. He raked his eyes up to hers, smiled a condescending little smile, wet his lips, and with a slight furrow of his brow, looked away. Then he entered the room and was lost from sight.

Mireille observed the spot where he had stood for a moment as if it would bring her answers, but she couldn't for the life of her understand what had just happened.

She had seen a completely different person than the one who had entered their home. A person who hadn't a nicety to spare for decorum, gallantry, or respect. One who chided honest words and open intentions. It had been the first real slip of his veneer; there would be more.

"Mother, why don't you leave the guest's arrangements to me then? I'll have him sorted before dinner," Mireille offered, noting the glazed appearance of her mother's vision. Her eyes trailed in the direction of her daughter's face but never rightly hit their mark.

So that had been the cause for all the pleasantries and prancing about.

"Yes, I think that would be a lovely idea, darling. Be sure to tell your father to come in soon. You know how he always waits until his plate gets cold before he comes in."

Mireille eyed her wearily, a grimace worrying her lips.

"Of course," she said with a weak smile.

She watched her mother descend the staircase and only moved once she was fully downstairs. Mireille straightened up and smoothed down her dress, determined to enter into a conversation while having the upper hand for once. In a few short steps, she was outside his doorway.

She peered timidly into the room without entering, but couldn't see him from where she stood.

"Monsieur?" she called. Taking a tentative step forward, she ducked gracefully inside.

He wasn't there.

"Monsieur," she repeated, a bit more assertive while glancing around.

He appeared in a separate doorway—the one that led to the adjacent wash room, completing the en suite. He leant against the frame and looked down to remove his gloves slowly. One finger at a time. He looked perfectly at ease.

Upper hand, indeed.

"Monsieur," she stated. He didn't look up, nor did he bother to respond. Mireille's jaw tightened in frustration. But she had come here to ease her mother's burden, so she put her suspicions aside for now.

"I would like to make sure that you find the arrangements to your satisfaction." At that moment, he pushed himself off of the doorframe and headed straight toward her. She stiffened unwillingly, screwed her eyes shut, and prepared for whatever he was going to do.

And just like that, he had moved past her altogether.

First she opened one eye, then the other. She turned to see him inspecting the bed and discarding his gloves atop the knitted white blanket.

_He had to have seen that._

And yet he still did not acknowledge her, so she had no choice but to press on.

"You will find clean linens in the closet out in the hall. Dinner will be served promptly at 7:30. Breakfast is normally at 7:00, but we can certainly leave out some boiled eggs for you to take if you leave before then," she finished.

At last, he turned to face her. His face bore no expression, but she could swear that she saw laughter dancing behind his eyes. A flare of anger rose up in her chest, but she waited patiently.

"Very well, thank you," he said, indicating for her to leave him in peace. She wasn't quite through with him yet though.

"If I may," she began, watching how his interest piqued at her rejection of his dismissal. She tried to figure out the best words to use before continuing, "I would ask that if you have any requests during your stay that you make them with myself instead of my mother or my sister."

He straightened and drew closer to her with a single step. It did not escape Mireille's notice how his eyes trailed the length of her body, surveying her in a single glance. She shifted uncomfortably.

"Is there a particular reason?" he asked. He cocked his head to the side, arrogance making itself known. She had known it was there all along, but this was her first time seeing it outright.

"Only that I would be the best person to deal with your requests efficiently. I imagine you must be a busy man with no time to wait on those around you," she explained. That sounded neutral enough to her ears. Hopefully he agreed.

He stared at her openly, a small smile creeping onto his face. In his quiet, she took the chance to examine him as well.

His eyes were blue, something she wasn't able to distinguish before. There were shallow bags under his eyes—the beginning instances of fatigue, though his attitude betrayed nothing of exhaustion. He was alert, aware.

His hair was cut in the way she imagined all German soldiers' hair was, an undercut with a sharp, slick mop of hair above it. If he had been anybody else (not the enemy who was ripping France from her people's bosom), she would have found him attractive. Dashing even.

She shook her head quickly once to rid herself of the traitorous thought.

"You really are too kind, Mademoiselle, I should be just fine," he said. He hadn't made any real commitment to her terms, so she pressed him further. She needed to hear his acquiescence.

"But if for any reason, you find yourself in need, please don't hesitate to find me—"

"What is your name?" he interrupted.

Mireille paused at his abruptness.

"Mireille, Monsieur," she replied. Something inside her begged caution, like she was starting down a path that she shouldn't.

"Mireille Marveaux," he surmised. She was sure her family's name was somewhere on his documentation, so it was no surprise that he had known it already.

"Oui, Monsieur."

He smiled a bit wider, though it didn't reach his eyes. He was studying her still, "Then I will know who to call should I find myself in need of something."

"Very well," she agreed and turned to leave, her mission now complete.

His hand shot out to grab her arm and pull her back. She jumped at the unexpected contact, her hand instinctively reaching up to shove it off. He relented quickly, and Mireille schooled her features to belie composure.

"If it's no trouble, is there anything to eat now? An apple?" he asked.

"Of course," she acceded and turned to leave once more.

"Thank you."

She felt his stare on her back with each retreating step.


	3. III. The Suitors

III. _Li Demandaire_ / The Suitors

Monday, June 24th, 1940

“And so they turned a few more leaves to gather,

And for a while spake not again, but rather

Exchanged bright looks and sidelong, saying well

The one who first should laugh, would break the spell.”

❈❈❈

The days passed. One long arc of the sun led to the moon’s glaring beams, but time moved slower than it ever had in all of her twenty years of life. How could it not when this _man_ was staying in their home? This ever-watching, condescending man.

He was always sat at the table promptly five minutes before the appointed mealtime, never once allowing his duties to interfere. From what she had gathered amongst those she had come into contact with over the past few days, he served as an aide to the Major presiding over the _Heer_ headquarters at Bussy.

His uniform was always crisp and neatly tucked. Never once did he present himself in front of any of the three women with so much as a button undone. She preferred him that way—appropriately and thoroughly robed. It might have helped her forget what sort of a barbarian was living in their home.

Mireille watched him closely from the kitchen window, standing over Honorine’s shoulder as she scrubbed the morning’s plates. He was surveying the state of the garden— _her_ garden—something so simple, and she still somehow felt like he was prying into something private. That was his way, she noticed. Overstepping boundaries came as easily to him as breathing. Hubris, naturally.

“Hurry along, Hon, we mustn’t dally,” she stated absentmindedly, eyes never leaving the window.

He looked up from the foliage like he had felt the weight of her stare and turned to face the house. Mireille rushed away from the window, sweeping her sister along despite her protests of not having finished the dishes.

“They can wait. Mother will take care of the rest,” she insisted.

She did not know what to make of him, the way he kept a small smile perched upon his lips like he was waiting—calculating. He knew her family would crumble, as the rest of the world had. Bend to his every whim, this embodiment of the new order. He was a man and a system. A god in the flesh.

He saw her the way a bird surveys the goings-on below while it climbs high in the sky. He was apart from her distress, though he was its main cause. At least the closest at hand she should say. The whole world was against France now it felt like, and the German serpent had coiled itself around her throat.

 _Enough with the fascination!_ She scolded herself. That was one thing Mireille had never been able to quell: her knack for investigation. This man was not being entirely truthful, and besides the need to protect her family, something _itched_ inside of her to know what his honest motives were. All the better to subdue and nullify him with.

“Come along, I’ll walk you to the barn,” she stated while heading for the door. Mireille refused to let Honorine out of her sight while that man was in their midst. And if she didn’t know where he was, then she at least knew where her sister was, and that was all that mattered.

“Isn’t today Monday?” Honorine asked, a quizzical furrow to her brow. Mireille stared blankly back at her for several moments.

“Good morning!” Mother strolled into the kitchen, several freshly-laundered cleaning rags in tow.

“Morning,” Mireille responded, doing her best to keep her gaze from straying to the window.

Mother fussed and flitted about, making busy work for herself. After a few moments, she stopped.

“Isn’t it a Monday? After the shearing and the bathing?” The older woman questioned. It dawned on Mireille all at once.

“Shit!” she shouted, hastily grabbing tying an old scarf around her head.

“Language,” Mother warned, though her tone was full of warmth.

How could she have forgotten? Today was the start of haymaking, and her services were expected in return for the aid she had received with the sheep. Of all people, her mother and her sister had remembered! Mireille’s mind must’ve really been getting away from her lately, more than she had originally thought.

It was that damned German, she was sure of it.

“Come along, Hon, it’s your turn too this go around,” she hurried.

She jammed a scrap of bread in her mouth, took a swig of water, stole her bag from off the rack, and was out the door in a bluster.

“Mireille!” Mother called when she had only made it a few steps.

“ _Mère_!” She shouted back, not appreciating the hindrance.

“ _Pas d’adieu_?”

Mireille’s shoulders sagged and she heaved a mighty sigh, “No…”

She trudged back to her mother and placed a kiss on each cheek before turning to leave once more.

“Love you. Be safe,” Mother reminded behind her.

“Love you too,” she replied with a harried wave, regaining her former feverish pace. She was able to hear some pleasantries being exchanged between her sister and mother soon after, but was too focused on making up for lost time to slow her pace.

She had made it only a few steps further down the lane when she spotted him—the German—standing off to the right side amongst some of the smaller trees. He was looking at her openly… _Again_.

Mireille had had just about enough of it, especially today. From him and from everybody.

She didn’t even stop when she addressed him, “Oh, what are you looking at?”

She continued her march down the drive unmolested. It was only half an hour later when she and Honorine arrived at the Delacroix Farm that she recalled that she had heard him laugh.

It was unnervingly pleasant.

* * *

The day’s labor had transpired without event, but Mireille’s back ached from the continuous repetitive motion of shearing long grass. She knew there were plenty of farms that had invested in the modern, tractor-drawn method of cutting, but the Delacroix were a simple, traditional folk. What’s more, the war wasn’t a prime time for making big purchases. It was a time of scarcity and conservation. One had to make do with what one had, and if that meant Mireille had to spend 12 hours twisting and turning in an open field to help her neighbors, then so be it.

Honorine, for her part, was so absolutely delighted to be in such close proximity to boys near her own age that not even a hard day’s work could wipe the smile from her face. Mireille had noticed she had a particular eye for Rodolphe, the chocolate-haired youth who had helped with the shearing. He often made a great show of falling upon the ground with a giant, heaving sigh every time they were afforded some rest and water, and Honorine’s cheeks would color a dusty pink in response.

Mireille laughed quietly to herself at both of their antics—one far more overt than the other, yet both so obvious in their expressions. She quite thought he and Honorine would make a fine pair. This war would end soon enough (she hoped), and with it would come a great inundation of new, secure love.

The sun had descended just low enough on the horizon that it wasn’t directly in her line of sight for the walk home, though it provided plenty of illumination of the path. Madame Delacroix had sent the girls on their way with a basket full of pickled vegetables—carrots, cucumbers, garlic, and more—in exchange for several jars of Mother’s raspberry and cherry jam. Some of the neighbors preferred to use her jams for tarts and baking rather than their own, and so Mireille obliged them the transport of goods. But she had to admit, after a long day and an aching back, she was doing her best to keep herself from feeling ungrateful.

The girls rounded the gate, and she bid Honorine to run inside and help Mother with final dinner preparations, “Go on, make sure you set me an extra heaping too. I’m starving!”

“Alright!” Honorine started off with a shout, running towards the house in a flash.

Mireille paused at the end of the lane, taking a steadying breath. Only a few steps more and she could eat to her heart’s content.

“May I carry that for you?” Again. He was there again.

Mireille jerked her head to look at him, “No, thank you.”

She meant to carry on, but he stepped closer, invading her space. They were far enough away from the house that it would be difficult to hear a shout. She just hoped Mother would have them in her line of sight from the kitchen window should he try to pull some sort of stunt.

“Really,” he began, looking deeply into both of her eyes, “It’s no trouble.”

He was right; she wanted a rest so badly. Every part of her body cried out for a goddamned rest. But he was also a fucking Nazi.

“Really,” she mocked, “No, thank you.”

Infuriatingly enough, he smiled at her refusal. Oh, she wished she could give him a piece of her mind.

Rainer’s eager barking announced his presence, and he jumped between the pair in his own canine form of greeting.

“Rainer, no! Be careful of the—!”

It was too late. His two front paws came down upon the basket, slamming it down and out of her hands. Jars rolled in every direction, and a particularly delicious looking container of pickled garlic smashed entirely.

Mireille stood, gaping. Shock was quickly overcome by anger.

“RAINER!” She shouted at the top of her lungs, stomping her foot into the ground like a petulant child, “I love you so very much, but you really are a stupid, _STUPID_ dog!”

Rainer shrank back, and she instantly regretted it. He was a dog, for Heaven’s sake. What did he know? He was only showing his affection.

The officer bent down on one knee and patted him on the head to comfort him, “Oh, hush now, boy. She didn’t mean it.”

Mireille huffed to clear herself of any remaining negative feelings and stood watching the pair on the ground at her feet. Her arms naturally folded themselves across her chest.

“He’s right, I didn’t mean it,” she conceded. To say the words in front of this stranger burned her insides, but she loved the dog more than she hated the man. Rainer’s ears perked up at her apologetic tone, and his tail began to wag. He walked tentatively up, and she knelt to bury her fingers in his thick, white fur.

“Come here, boy,” she said with a hug around his neck.

“His name is Rainer…Like the poet?” Bonnet asked, still kneeling next to her.

She had been so caught up in making amends with the animal that she had almost forgotten the officer’s presence altogether.

“Yes.”

“You read his work?” he probed further.

“Naturally.” He wouldn’t get a thing out of her.

She let go of Rainer’s neck and began collecting the spilled contents of her basket. He bent to help, but she shooed him off.

“Dinner will be served soon. You’d better head inside. I’ll be along in just a moment.”

He stood to his full height swiftly, the movement so rapid her eyes couldn’t help but follow. He was annoyed. Perhaps the little German boy hadn’t been denied anything in his life. Perhaps her rebuffs were finally getting through.

 _Good_.

She actually looked at him for the first time that day. His eyes were narrowed and his lips were pursed in displeasure. His hair was a bit looser as it fell haphazardly over his forehead. But that’s not what drew her in.

It was his uniform. It was completely undone. The overcoat was unbuttoned all the way, and the white shirt underneath was even let out to expose most of his chest. His dog tags hung naturally in the center of the open expanse, and Mireille’s stare followed them down to where the shirt finally closed. It was still the same trim figure she had seen before when he was all put together, but this looked different somehow. Stronger. More dangerous.

He was human; there was no denying it. Blood and bones and pale skin. Not a mark upon it. It looked so smooth, she wanted to touch it. To run her fingers over it and see if it really felt as soft as it looked.

 _Jésus_. How long had it been since she’d seen an able-bodied, young man her own age? Not since the start of the war, nine months or so. She had to get herself together.

Her gaze traveled back up to his face. She shouldn’t have looked.

Of course he had seen her, seen everything. He knew he was a specimen. He saw it everyday in the square. Every woman in town was practically fawning over their conquerors, and it made her sick.

He didn’t say a word, mostly because he probably thought she would run away if he did. His face looked like he was doing his best to keep it neutral, but she still saw everything. He oozed confidence; he liked that she had been studying him. His head leaned back as he looked at her, a sign of victory.

Goodness, he stared at her, and she stared right back. She analyzed him, and he analyzed her right back. Would their curiosities never abate?

“You’d better straighten out your uniform before you come inside,” she admonished him quietly, keeping her eyes averted, “Wouldn’t want Mother to mistake you for a vagrant.”

When she did finally look at him, there was a smirk on his face. He blinked at her and waited for her to make her next move.

Mireille—not able to stand the tension any further—picked up her newly collected goods, and stepped briskly for the house.

He arrived at the table exactly five minutes before dinner was served. His uniform was firmly buttoned, his hair was slicked back into place, and there was a mischievous glint in his eye.

* * *

_The forest blurred around her. Trees morphed into every foul creature her mind could conceive, fangs bared and claws stretched out, willing her to come close enough to strike._

_Mireille looked down and saw that her white sleeping gown was torn in several different places, and blood had marred the fabric further._

_Blood?_

_She felt it then—the pain._

_She stopped running long enough to pull the skirt up and she saw it. Spiderwebs of red dripped from her center, trailing down the inner part of her legs. And it_ hurt _._

_A twig snapped behind her, but she didn’t dare turn around to look. She was off in a dead sprint, all pain forgotten in the thirst to live._

_Footfalls sounded behind her, bestial and unrelenting. Whatever was chasing her would have her at all costs._

_And it was getting closer._

_She couldn’t breathe no matter how hard she tried, no matter how much she screamed for air._

_Her legs were growing heavier with each step. Her lungs felt like they were going to burst._

_It was right behind her now._

_She couldn’t go on._

_A single claw dug its way into her shoulder, then another._

_Fangs wrapped around the back of her neck._

_A breath._

_The kill._

_Pain._

_Fury._

_Fear._

Mireille sat upright in bed, sweating and panting. Her heart was pounding, and she placed a steadying hand over it to stem the furious pace. It was quite unlike her to have nightmares. She often never dreamt at all.

“Just a dream, just a dream,” she whispered.

Only when her breathing had slowed and her mind was set slightly at ease did Mireille stop to take in her surroundings.

A soft rain tapped a _rat-a-tat-tat_ against the window pane, which was unusual during the long summer nights. The room was cloaked in darkness, and a quick glance to her bedside clock told her it was just after four in the morning. She still had another hour before she needed to wake, but with her nerves so rattled, she doubted sleep would find her again. A glass of water was in order.

She pulled the covers back gracefully and slid her feet into the slippers that awaited next to the bed. Between the early hour and the already warm temperature of the night, she refrained from putting on a housecoat. Opening her door, she peered into the hallway to confirm she was alone.

Satisfied with her inspection, Mireille tip-toed along the wooden floorboards careful not to disturb Mother or Honorine. The path she traveled was a well-rehearsed one. Though she might not have often had nightmares, Mireille often found herself rising to drink a glass of water in the middle of the night. She really didn’t know how everyone else slept from dusk until dawn. On even her most restful nights of sleep, she would wake sometime around one or two-o’clock in the morning and stay awake for a short while. In fact, she felt more tired when she managed to sleep through the night without waking.

She hadn’t meant to stop at the officer’s door, especially when she saw that it was wide open, like he had been expecting her to walk by and left it that way before he went to sleep some hours ago. It was only decent for her to close it. She knew she should have just kept walking, but her curiosity got the better of her. What did wolves look like when they slept?

No, she should just shut the door and be done with it.

Mireille turned and reached for the door handle but stopped in her tracks. The bright light of the moon poured in through the window above his bed, and tangled up in the crisp linen sheets lay _Oberleutnant_ Bonnet. Only he didn’t look like an officer.

He lay on his back and was completely naked except for a set of _Wehrmacht_ -issue white underwear. The tags around his neck rose and fell with each slow and sleepy breath, catching the glint of the moon each time. She studied him, every inch of him, even the parts that she begged herself not to. He was all sleek lines and hard muscle, but that softness she had seen before remained. He was a machine of war encased in a mortal vessel. How she wanted to see if he was really hard or soft. To trace those lines all the way down to—

_Doux Jésus. Again. Touch him?_

Curiosity was no excuse for blatant idiocy.

Sparing herself not another moment of thought, Mireille reached into the room, took hold of the door handle, and pulled it closed.

Somehow she felt even thirstier than before.

* * *

That same morning, Mireille found herself in the kitchen preparing once again to travel to the Delacroix Farm for the haymaking. They would be at it for another week or so, and then she could focus on tending to her garden and beginning to harvest more fruits and vegetables in anticipation of winter.

Mireille grabbed a piece of bread, spread a decent portion of her mother’s strawberry preserves over it, and took a hearty bite. She closed her eyes while she chewed, savoring the taste. Goodness, Mother knew how to make a sweet preserve.

“Good morning,” the _Oberleutnant_ interrupted her trance in a light greeting.

Her mood soured considerably, “Morning.”

“I trust you had a good night’s rest,” he said, far too pleasantly for her liking.

“As well as one can,” she answered.

“Hmm,” he assented. Their conversation lapsed into silence. She preferred it that way, but she felt he wouldn’t let it rest for long.

“You know, I thought I heard some noises early this morning,” he started again, not yet looking at her while he searched the table for something to eat, “Perhaps you should check to see if there is a rodent problem.”

“It wasn’t rodents. It was me getting up to get water,” she clarified.

“I don’t know, this is the third time I’ve heard it. I’d hate to think I was staying in a home full of rats.”

“No need to worry, _Monsieur_. I am wont to rise for a spell and frequent the kitchen or visit the library.” She tried to keep the exasperation from her tone.

“And you do this often?”

“ _Oui_ , it is natural for me.”

“Is that how you came to stand outside my bedroom door last night?” He asked, spreading the strawberry preserves over a piece of bread.

Mireille’s blood turned to ice. He knew.

Her eyes scanned wildly back and forth while her mind scrambled to come up with a suitable response. When she looked up, his eyes were firmly fixed on her, intensely curious to see how she could possibly worm her way out of it.

_Courage._

“I was merely shutting the door for decency’s sake,” she explained, alluding to his choice of nighttime attire. “Imagine if Honorine or Mother had walked by to see you in such a state. It was only proper.”

He chuckled lowly to himself before answering, knowing full well of the lie as it slipped out of her lips, “Is it only proper to stand and watch a man sleep for several minutes?”

Mireille spluttered for a moment before collecting herself.

“Is it proper for a man to pretend to be sleeping while a woman has the common decency to check that he’s alive and well on her way to get a damned glass of water?”

“You care for my well-being?” he questioned with a tilt of his head, assuming a false air of innocence. She had walked into his trap headlong.

Her mind quickened like silver, an animal backed into a corner with no choice but to fight or flee. She chose the former.

“Do not assume my motivations, _Monsieur_ ,” she seethed, taking a step closer to invade his personal space. She stood a few inches too close, but she hadn’t a wit left to care.

She should have known it wouldn’t have disconcerted him. The man lived for creating discomfort in others, and this affront to his boundaries only fueled the fire within him. He smiled calmly and dipped his head lower to turn her move in their game on its head. Mireille fought not to take an instinctive step back. She would not be the weak one in this exchange.

“Does that mean you were planning to kill me?” he murmured. She felt his warm breath on her face and flinched.

Outright denial meant admitting she had watched him for her own pleasure. Conceding murderous intent over intrigue meant certain death.

And still she could not decide.

Mireille scowled and narrowed her eyes at him. How she despised that smug little smile of his.

_Think of Mother. Think of Honorine._

She capitulated with a drawl, “Do you really think so poorly of me, _Monsieur_?”

His smile grew into a full-on grin, savoring the sensation of victory, and he bent his head low in front of her once more.

“Never,” he said, eyeing her up and down lazily and then promptly reached around her, taking his time to retrieve an apple from the serving bowl on the table. And then just as slowly, he leaned back to take the first savory bite. A small dribble remained in its wake, but he didn’t wipe it away. He ate, and he watched. He always watched.

With a sniff, Mireille spun on her heel to leave the kitchen.

“Before you go,” he interjected.

Mireille stiffened but fixed a smile in place and turned to face him.

“ _Oui, Monsieur_?”

“I have some laundry that needs washing. I was hoping you could tend to it, if it’s not too much trouble.”

Always with the false pleasantries.

She shook her head, “No trouble at all.”

“Good,” he smirked.

“Indeed,” Mireille said, seizing the chance to exit.

It was several hours later when the hazy afternoon sun had started to dip in its daily trek in the sky that the haymakers parted. Once she and Honorine had arrived home, Mireille looked for any excuse to get out of the heat, and so had wandered inside with the intention of setting upon the task of washing his laundry. She saw the pile of dirtied clothes set neatly in a pile upon his bed.

And on top of it all was a pair of perfectly laid out white underwear.


	4. IV. The Battle

IV. _La Batèsto_ / The Battle

Saturday, July 20th, 1940

“The beaten grass is dark with human gore,

And the field-ants already coursing o’er

The prostrate limbs ere Ourrias mounts, and hies

Under the rising moon in frantic wise;

Muttering, as the flints beneath him fly,

‘Tonight the Crau wolves will feast merrily.’”

❈❈❈

It was a pleasant day for errands, as far as one could say that a day under the hand of the Reich was pleasant. The sun shone bright, and a persistent breeze lifted the hair off of her neck, cooling the sweat that had made a home for itself.

Soon the town was within sight, its tall, yellow-stoned clocktower rising high above the square. Mireille could see a cluster of soldiers gathered around the fountain in various states of undress, cavorting around with each other while they stole a chance to launder their uniforms. She wouldn’t have spared a glance if she hadn’t noticed the flock of young women that were amongst them chatting, smiling, and primping. Ladies stood in open windows above the square too. They were like moths to a flame. It made her sick! France may have fallen into Nazi hands a little less than a month ago, but this was its real demise.

Still, she shouldn’t judge. Women could be just as desperate as men for a little affection and not from their overly watchful mothers. War changed a lot of things, but it didn’t change need.

Mireille marched on, headed for the grocer opposite the fountain. A tiny bell signaled her entrance.

“ _Bonjour, Monsieur_ ,” she called. A gentleman in his late forties with a sweet smile, Monsieur Marchand, stepped out from a back room to greet her.

“ _Bonjour, Mademoiselle_. How have you been this week?” he asked politely.

“ _Bien, merci._ The haymaking has finally finished, so it’ll be time to head back into the gardens for a bit. Mother’s just done her first batch of blackberry preserves. I should have thought to bring you one, my apologies!”

Mireille handed Monsieur Marchand a list of items to collect for her.

“Ah, well, there’s always next week,” he said with a smile.

“Of course,” she smiled in return and then turned to look out the large bay windows while he set about her shopping.

There were an awful lot of horses out in the square, she noted. They formed a line all the way around the central area, moving forward every so often. Farmers milled about, waiting their turn patiently in line. What were they do—?

She saw. At the front of the line was an inspection officer, looking each specimen over for any deformities or disqualifying traits that would prevent the animal from service. Now their very animals were being conscripted for service to the _Führer._

Mireille whirled around in annoyance. She shouldn’t concern herself with such matters. It didn’t affect her, and she had enough of her own problems to worry about between family, the farm, and their officer.

Our _officer_?

Shaking the errant thought from her mind, she engaged Monsieur Marchand who had all of her groceries in order and ready for carry out. She paid him, bid him _au revoir_ , and set out for her next stop: the butcher. Then the post office. Then the bakery. It was a long day of many tasks.

Walking through the square to the butcher, she passed directly in front of the never-ending equine line and noticed several familiar faces amongst the farmers. She bid a good morning to each one and kept walking.

Several of the soldiers at the fountain had turned their attention to her as she passed by and were either watching or offering to assist with her groceries. There were too many people in the square today, she decided.

Mireille had almost passed the line and the fountain entirely when she heard a German-accented voice speak, “Good morning.”

She knew his voice. She could pick it out of a crowd in a heartbeat.

He was at the head of the line. He himself was the appraiser of the quality of beast she had spotted earlier. He must’ve come from a well-to-do family to be given such a task. Not all families owned a horse; only those with larger farms.

“ _Bonjour_ ,” she said with a slight nod of her head refusing to show any signs of slowing her stride.

At seeing her acknowledgment of one of their own, the soldiers near the fountain doubled down on their efforts to get her attention themselves, their volume and frequency of shouts growing louder.

Mireille unintentionally slowed to a stop, the frustration of the day’s heat, the heavy groceries, and the men’s general lack of decency grating on her nerves. Before she could prevent herself, she turned to look directly at her officer.

He was already staring at her, watching the way she was affected. He looked curious, but she saw mirth swimming in his eyes.

They held each other’s gaze a moment, a mountain of unspoken volumes volleyed between them. Hers chief amongst them was ‘ _Do these morons ever shut up?’_

Bonnet chuckled to himself and the next moment turned to face the crowd.

He erupted with a booming voice she didn’t quite think he should be capable of, “ _Halt die Klappe und beende deine Wäsche. Sie hat keine Zeit für Sie. Sie sind zu hässlich für ihr Geschmack_.”

One blonde haired man donned a broad smile and shouted back, “ _Vielleicht bevorzugt sie einen höheren Rang, ja Oberleutnant?_ ” He snapped his heels together and saluted at his superior officer. The men laughed and clapped the soldier on his back, and she saw said _Oberleutnant_ was barely concealing a smile himself.

“ _Schau auf ihr Gesicht. Kannst sie ihre Verachtung nicht sehen?_ ” He paused for a moment, and everyone turned their attention on her. Mireille looked back at them all one by one in turn. She had no idea what they were talking about, but she wouldn’t be afraid. Bonnet resumed, “ _Es ist berauschend_.”

Another round of laughter filled the square _,_ and she knew her face was turning pinker by the second. She didn’t mind the attention or the ridicule or whatever it might be; it was the not knowing what they were saying that was unsettling. Whatever was transpiring certainly seemed like much more than an order and simple acquiescence.

Soon, the men turned away with a few polite waves. Bonnet looked at her again, a grin stealing his features.

“Thank you,” she stated. After all, he had gotten them off of her back, and for that she was grateful. But as she continued to look at him for a few extra moments, she hoped she communicated her intent to corner him later and find out every last word that was breathed without her understanding in that square. She would be nobody’s fool. He looked at her sideways for a few moments—his self-assured smirk daring her to do just that—and turned back to survey the next horse, effectively dismissing her.

Mireille nodded and stepped off, intent on completing her tasks without the interruption of any more Germans.

She didn’t turn around to see him watching her retreat.

* * *

Mireille stepped gingerly over fallen twigs and loose pebbles, stopping to let the dying sunshine wash over her face. The walk home wasn’t a terribly long one, but she liked to enjoy it, especially when the heat of day waned. She could forget there was a war on. She could forget the creeping immorality that brushed her hips. She could just forget.

It felt nice. A small smile broke her harsh exterior, and she halted to look around and make sure no one was near. The road was empty, her only companions the discarded articles of clothing or household goods left behind by refugees on their way out of Paris. She giggled to herself, a giddiness consuming her.

Her toe tapped an unheard rhythm and her head bobbed back and forth, matching time to her dancing pace.

“ _La pendule fait tic-tac-tic-tic. Les oiseaux du lac font pic-pic-pic-pic. Glou-glou-glou font tous les dindons. Et la jolie cloche ding-din-don, mais boum!_ ” Her singing grew louder with each line, and she stepped along to the melody. It was a nonsense song, more for comfort in trying times than actual meaning. She was happy to be alive, and so she sang.

“ _Tout a changé depuis hier et la rue a des yeux qui regardent aux fenêtres. Y a du lilas et y a des mains tendues, sur la mer le soleil va paraître_ ,” She made silly gestures, scrunched up her face to imitate the funny sounds of Charles Trenet, and she would sometimes dissolve into giggles, but she was free. She was happy for this simple escape.

Her favorite part came, and she belted out the words without a care, “ _Quand notre cœur fait boum. Tout avec lui dit boum. L'oiseau dit boum, c'est l’orage. Brrr, boum!_ ” Mireille imitated the singer from the radio’s raucous and thundering _brrrrrr_ with a flourish, and the absurdity of the sound she produced caused her to dissolve into a fit of laughter. She must’ve looked so ridiculous!

As her laughter faded on the breeze, she felt once more strain in her arms from carrying the groceries. The sweat on her brow was more prominent than before, and she decided to rest for a spell. The lane was shadowed by trees on either side, and she chose the closest one to nestle under.

Setting the groceries down, Mireille curled herself up in the roots, her back firmly against the trunk. She gazed out over the open fields of golden grass and thanked God for His peace. Maybe man would learn to catch up one day; maybe they would see it too and put down their arms. What a fantasy.

Her pale yellow dress gathered in a bunch at her knees. She probably looked wholly indecent for polite society, but it was too beautiful a day to pay any mind. A bird chirped happily from the tree above her almost as if to lend its approbation. She smiled wider, closing her eyes against the afternoon sun.

“ _Mademoiselle?_ ”

Mireille’s eyes snapped open, and she lifted her head from the trunk where it had rested.

“What?” she asked blindly. She searched around, noting that the sun had dipped far lower in the sky. She must’ve fallen asleep!

Was she out of her mind? They were at war for heaven’s sake! A French girl alone on the side of the main road in and out of Bussy, and sleeping! Had she no sense of self-preservation?

Bringing a hand up to wipe a startling amount of spittle from her lip, she searched her immediate surroundings in a blaze. She was not alone. Two tall black boots over grey uniform pants greeted her. Glancing higher, she saw it was him. Her officer.

An instant air of unsteadiness descended upon her. He robbed any trace of the calm that had remained from the afternoon.

“ _Oui, Monsieur?_ ” She questioned, bringing a hand up to rub the sleep from her eyes. She wanted to have clear vision to keep track of his every movement, his every breath.

“You were sleeping on the side of the road,” he explained, “Has something happened?”

“No,” she stated with a tone of finality. He raised his eyebrows and stared at her, obviously expecting an answer, but she changed the subject, “What did you say to those men today?”

He scoffed but answered her anyway, “You wanted them to stop bothering you, no?”

“Yes,” she acquiesced, but her curiosity was insatiable. Their foreign tongue made no sense. It was all hissing sounds and harsh tones. She had dedicated her time to learning things more beautiful to her ears: Spanish and Italian. She pressed, “But there was certainly much more to it than that. Tell me.”

He came to himself all at once, tiring of the game and her assumed dominance in it. Interesting. When something didn’t go his way, it lost his interest. There was another glimpse of that spoiled child that Mireille had seen before.

“You forget yourself, _Mademoiselle._ The business of my men and I is none of your concern. Unless of course you are feeding information to those who would see us gone from France,” he turned on her, “Are you cooperating with the partisans?”

“Absolutely not,” she scorned him. What sort of an accusation was that. She had far too much that she cared about to be playing army with the disenfranchised. She accepted life the way it was. She relented to fate, no matter how bleak. Such was life.

“That still does not explain why you were sleeping on the side of busiest road in town. Were you perhaps waiting for someone and fell asleep? A co-conspirator?” His face made him look like he was amused, but the hard line in his eyes told her to tread carefully.

She sighed, “I was merely enjoying the day and stopped to take a rest on my walk home from town.”

He glanced at the bags of groceries next to her, “Maybe it was your weakness that prevented you from carrying on. You do have very skinny arms. Women shouldn’t be carrying such heavy things. Give them to me. I will carry them home for you.”

Mireille wanted to punch him square in his well-defined jaw. She and her family had always managed just fine without a man for almost an entire decade. Who was he to swoop in and start making assumptions about her? It was like he had already decided the situation: he was the man and she was weak.

But perhaps there was a part of her deep down—a sliver the size of the tiniest shard of broken glass, just big enough to catch the light of the sun—that wanted to give in. To let someone else be in charge. To let someone else do the hard work. To let someone else carry the goddamned groceries.

With a quick shake of her head, she stood up to her full height (which didn’t mean much considering that she only came up to just his shoulder) to face him head on.

“I have very strong arms, thank you very much, _Oberleutnant_ , and you’d do well to let this _weak_ woman carry her own groceries,” she spit.

He surveyed her for a moment as if trying to decide how to respond to her disrespectful tone, and neither of them moved. Mireille was embarrassed to hear her own heavy breathing.

His eyebrow quirked to signal an indication that he had made his decision, and he took a moment to glance up and down the lane.

_What is he doing?_

She got her answer when the next instant she was pushed harshly up against the tree trunk behind her, his hand over her mouth and his entire body engulfing hers. She squirmed and twisted, doing her best to get him off of her, but he was just too big. Too solid.

His eyes bore into hers, and she could’ve gasped aloud at what she saw there. Anger, resentment, and… _intent_. That despite all of his exasperation with her, she was still the sole object of his focus. The landscape around them faded, and Mireille saw only the teal depths of his frustration. Her head spun.

“You should show a little appreciation, _Mademoiselle_ ,” he fumed, “You should see the state of some of the living arrangements your fellow Frenchmen are subjected to. Living in barns, tossed out of their own homes to make way for us. You should be grateful I haven’t done the same to your precious mother and sister.”

Mireille thrashed at the mention of Mother and Honorine, but still he did not budge. She glared so harshly that she could barely see through her eyelashes.

He regarded her silently, and she saw the anger leave him. It was replaced with something much more deadly, much more evil. His eyes flickered down to her covered mouth, imagining it there, and then he bent closer until their noses were just barely touching.

“You should be grateful I don’t shoot you all and claim that you were rebels plotting to overthrow Headquarters,” he taunted. Every part of her felt that he wanted to do it too, and badly.

She should’ve been afraid. She should’ve succumbed and let him do whatever he wanted if only it meant that her family would be safe. She should’ve been the demure and silent woman he wanted her to be. One that caused him no problems and gave him a quick fuck whenever he needed.

But she wasn’t. Ignoring the niggling part of her mind that wanted to stay and see this battle through, Mireille did the only thing that made sense to her.

She pretended to submit to his advances, and looked up into his eyes sheepishly. A victorious grin split over his face, and he took to watching her for his own amusement. His attention was solely on her eyes.

 _Perfect_.

With all the fury of a bear, she reared her leg back and drove it straight into his groin. His face crumpled and his hands went to cover himself with a loud and deranged _oof_.

A surprised laugh escaped her mouth, but she didn’t stay to watch him. What had she done?!

She needed a head-start, and she needed him to stay down for a while yet. Without thinking, she reared back once more and delivered a heavy blow to his stomach, knocking the wind from him. She didn’t think. She only moved.

Grabbing the bags of groceries, one in each hand, Mireille took off at a dead sprint. She was only a kilometer from home, but she couldn’t afford to stop. Her legs and arms burned with the exertion, but she would not let him catch her. She thanked God for all of her days working in the fields or in the barn, strengthening her body.

A few steps into her race, she heard some indecipherable words drift to her ears, broken and gasping.

“ _Ich werde dir die verdammte Kehle durchschneiden! Dumme Schlampe!_ ”

She shouldn’t have wasted her energy looking back, but she did. Just to see what a crumpled wolf looked like.

His face was absolutely red—from pain or anger she couldn’t tell—and his icy blue eyes were glaring daggers at her. A stray lock of hair fell over his forehead, and it shook as he breathed in and out raggedly.

Weak indeed.

* * *

With every sprinting step toward home, the gravity of the situation dawned on her bit by bit, landing heavily upon her heart. 

_What have I done?_

Smarting in the face of Nazis was one thing, but kicking one? Did she want to die? More importantly, did she want her _family_ to die?

The pace at which she ran made every ragged breath feel like her lungs were on fire, but after a few long minutes, she was home. Panting heavily, Mireille threw the bags down on the kitchen table and launched herself up the stairs and into her room. She shut the door and then leaned her back against it, thankful for its sturdiness.

What could she do? What if he had turned back to head into the town square and rouse the patrol to come and shoot her? What if they were going to shoot just her family but take her away?

Mireille’s mind raced, but she did everything she could to quiet her thoughts. Yes, this was bad. Horrible, in fact. And maybe if she had just kept her temper in check this wouldn’t have happened.

 _No, he needed to keep his hands off of me in the first place_.

That was laughable. A conqueror not exploiting the conquered? Impossible.

Logically, she was not at fault. In this world, however, she was.

She decided what she needed to do. She didn’t care how ridiculous she looked, she was going to grovel at his feet. Beg him, anything to make him forget her outburst and leave her family in peace. These Germans would be gone before long—on to the next occupation—and she would be safe. Mother and Honorine would be safe. She just needed to placate and bow and scrape until they (and he) were gone. She would see the end of this war.

Mireille turned to face the long standing mirror on the wall next to her doorway and smoothed her dress down. Her hair was mostly smooth, but she patted it down for extra measure, the run home having created a few flyaways from her flowing curls. Her cheeks didn’t need pinching; they were already pink from exertion. She bit her lips for added measure, hoping to plump them up a bit. She looked a pretty picture.

She descended the stone steps keeping her hand on the wall, still needing something to steady her. He could be home any minute now assuming he hadn’t headed back to Bussy proper.

Mother was busy tidying the kitchen and setting the table for dinner, a large pot of stew on the range. The smell of it caused Mireille to lurch in its direction. She just now realized that she hadn’t eaten since breakfast. But eating wasn’t a priority right now. She had to talk to the officer first.

“Smells delicious, Mother,” she commented, doing her best to keep her voice steady.

“ _Merci_ , my dear,” her mother replied, a sweet smile on her lips as she stirred the stew once, twice, and again, “It’ll be ready shortly.”

“I’m just going to head outside for some fresh air. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

Mother _tsk_ ed, but let her go.

Mireille stepped lithely through the door, trekking down the lane with all hell at her heels. Rainer slept amongst the trees just to the right of the lane, tired from another long day in the summer heat. She would normally stop to show the poor creature some affection, but she hadn’t the time. She needed to meet Bonnet at the gate.

She reached it, and stood erect next to the metal latch. The bend just beyond their lane didn’t help her as she couldn’t really see anything approaching from greater than fifty meters, so she took a calming breath and waited.

When she wasn’t looking, Mireille strained her ears to see if she could pick up his faint footsteps on the dirt, but she couldn’t hear a thing. The minutes ticked on, and she surmised that he really had gone back to town. That he was getting a contingent of soldiers who were going to come and shoot her and leave her body in the road for her mother to find.

She couldn’t let that happen. She had to go. _Now_.

She would have to pack her things, throw her knapsack over her shoulder, and make the long journey on foot to somewhere—anywhere—that wasn’t here. She could only hope against hope that the Nazis wouldn’t do anything to her family for the sake of fostering goodwill amongst the people. If she started packing now, she could be on the road by—

“You waited for me? I’m flattered,” a soft voice commented.

Mireille’s eyes shot up to see it was him. She hadn’t even heard him approaching she was so caught up in her own thoughts. Her breath froze in her throat, and she stared back at him openly, expecting him to pull his gun any second.

He looked completely put together, not a hair out of place, not a hint of anything that had transpired a short while before. It was incredibly off-putting, and when she couldn’t stand to keep up their eye contact any longer, she began to shift on her feet.

Mireille would have been convinced that he had suffered amnesia if she didn’t study him carefully. His exterior seemed at ease, but underneath it all was a tinge of something sinister. The hardness of his eyes. The tightness with which he held his smile.

Was he really going to ignore what had happened? Or was this some sick game of his to lull her into a false sense of security only to shut his jaws around her neck later?

“ _Monsieur_ , I wanted to apologize. For earlier. I don’t know what came over me, and I—”

With a silent _shh_ and shake of his head, he silenced her. The hard line his eyes came glaringly close to the surface. He began to circle around her slowly, a predator inspecting its prey.

Mireille didn’t move, didn’t breathe.

He did a single turn until he came round to face her head on once more. His eyes trailed a slow path down the front of her dress to her belly (or maybe somewhere lower) and then back up. He looked like he was going to snap under the weight of his anger…And something else that made Mireille equally—if not more—uneasy.

“Dinner will be served soon,” he stated, then turned and walked toward the house. His measured steps on the gravel were the only thing that brought Mireille out of her panic a few seconds later.

She stared after him as he strolled along.

Who was this man? And what had she gotten herself into with him, truly?

Mireille prowled toward the house, her body moving of its own accord. A short distance from the door, she could hear Mother’s record player emitting Claude Debussy’s ‘ _La fille aux cheveux de lin’_ from the sitting room, each plodding note embedding itself in her chest.

She returned to herself at the crest of a crescendo, and placed a hand over her heart. The door leading into the kitchen stood open before her, begging her entrance. No matter what came, she reminded herself, this was her doing. Her mother and father had raised her to be a woman who understood and accepted responsibility, and she would embody that for a while yet. Raising her head with a silent dignity, Mireille fixed her eyes in front of her and marched in to the house.

Thirty minutes later and she hadn’t said a word. Mother and Honorine had supped at their bowls of stew, happily chatting about the various goings-on of the day and all that had been accomplished around _La Ferme des Marveaux_. The officer ate silently, offering a comment here and there whenever the two women directed their attention onto him. When he spoke, Mireille’s eyes would lift feverishly to see if she could discern any clues as to how or when his revenge would manifest, but so far, she couldn’t puzzle a thing.

He ate casually, a relaxed air about him. He had buried his frustration and resentment so deep that no amount of spying would reveal it to her.

And just like that, confidence slithered back into her spine. She sat a little straighter, abandoning her slouching, submissive stance. She held her head aloft, shaking off any traces of fear. If he wouldn’t acknowledge her wrongdoing, then neither would she. She had asked for his forgiveness and he had just as much as accepted it. Perhaps it was his fragile masculinity that prevented him from acknowledging what had happened between them on the road.

 _Thank you God for male egos,_ she thought, a wry smirk appearing on her lips. She kept her eyes down to prevent anyone seeing her humor, but an odd sensation made her look up.

He was peering at her, noting the smug look on her face. His eyebrows shot up quickly, once, as if to say _‘is there something terribly funny to you?’_

 _Shit_.

She was caught. Perhaps he had been willing to let it go before, but she had just ensured he wouldn’t now. Mireille stared back at him straight-faced. His smile only grew wider. He liked seeing her this way: powerless and at his mercy.

She, on the other hand, was tired of it. Standing so fast in her chair that it made a scraping sound, Mireille excused herself from the table, put her dishes in the sink for Honorine to wash, and exited to the sanctuary of her bedroom.

* * *

The clock read one in the morning—her usual witching hour.

She had fallen asleep shortly after laying her head down upon her pillow in an anxious flurry, deciding that the only thing that could stop her racing mind was to simply shut it off altogether.

She had stayed like that, fully dressed and sprawled over the covers, for several hours. But now that her body arose for its nightly routine, she felt a thick dryness in her mouth. Her hair needed brushing and plaiting, and she needed to brush her teeth.

Mireille rose languidly and rubbed the sleep from her eyes as she padded over to her armoire. She opened the solid doors, retrieved a white sleeping gown with wide straps and a square neckline replete with lace embellishments. It was perfect for warm summer nights, light and breathable.

She changed quickly, brushed her hair the usual twenty strokes per section, and braided it loosely. She took care to wash her face of the day’s grime and brush her teeth. The water she rinsed with was satisfying, but Mireille needed a tall glass of water.

She left her room barefoot, went down the steps, and entered the kitchen to pour herself a full glass from the tap. She was rather peckish considering she hadn’t really eaten dinner, her head being so wrapped up in worry, but she had learned a long time ago that twilight was no time for eating.

She sat at the kitchen table, head in hand for a good long while, surveying the gardens as they basked in the last sliver of moonlight. It was dark, but Mireille’s eyes could clearly see the tops of the hydrangea bushes at almost two meters high. Everything looked blue-black, but these flowers were a deep and rich blue—the color of royalty.

She sighed in contentment. Despite anything that occurred during the daytime, Mireille always found solace in the quiet early hours of the morning. How could anything be wrong when the world was asleep?

_Even the conqueror has to rest once in a while._

Finishing the last of her water and beginning to feel the inclinations of slumber, she stood and placed the glass in the sink. The climb back up the stairs was a little more strenuous now that her tiredness had begun to set back in, but Mireille didn’t mind. She quite liked the feeling. It was like a warm blanket all her own. It was a comfort. A sign of life.

She quickly traversed the hallway and crossed the threshold of her room, turning to shut the door behind her.

The moment the door shut with a _click_ of the striker as it slid into place, a hand was over her mouth and a strong arm around her waist dragging her backwards.

She was no fool. He had finally come to get his revenge. He would strangle her and leave her dead for Mother and Honorine to find. It would most likely be blamed on some ridiculous and quick-striking thing like an aneurysm. Oh God, how would Mother cope?

Mireille thrashed, quickly coming to the conclusion that for her survival, she would have to kill the man behind her. Kill him, grab her things and her family, and run. If she got them up now, they could be gone by morning light.

“Shh, shh, shh,” he bid into her ear. His back hit the wall beside her armoire, and she felt the reverberation in her body. Her breathing came out heavily through her nostrils. It seemed much louder now that they had stopped moving.

She had a choice: to sit there like a scared lamb or to fight. She was absolutely terrified of the man behind her and what he was capable of doing, but she was far more frightened by the idea of submitting to death willingly.

Mireille spun around, a move he had clearly not been expecting because his arms immediately relinquished their hold on her. But the moment she settled in to face him, he understood her intention and crushed her to his body once more. Her face drew exceedingly close to his, but she didn’t back down nor did she flinch. He would get no weakness from her. If she was to die, she would do it with a sneer.

“What are you going to do—kill me then?” she asked through clenched teeth.

He chuckled, a breathy thing, “You forget yourself, _Mademoiselle_. I am not the one who assaulted an officer and ran. I wonder if you do that to every poor man who crosses your path.”

He probably thought recalling the event would make her blush or display some form of remorse, but unfortunately for him, it did the exact opposite. Mireille’s self-assuredness soared ever higher until the problem of the Nazi standing in front of her was nothing more than a crumb of inconvenience.

“No, _Monsieur._ I save that privilege for a select few,” she quipped back, “Namely the deserving.”

He laughed again, lower this time. She could sense his aggravation rising at her insolence. It fueled her ire all the more.

“Deserving? Now I have been nothing but a gentleman to your family whilst staying here. You couldn’t possibly—”

“Oh, I see you,” she chafed, “You act like a perfect ‘gentleman’, but I see what you really are: a beast. It’s always right there, right behind your eyes. You were asking for what you got today.”

He regarded her, amusement glinting behind his stare, “Hmm… You see me.”

“Yes,” she affirmed, her nose almost touching his own. She craned her head backward to stem the possibility of contact. He seemed to simmer on her words for a moment, his open eyes like closed windows, giving nothing away. Oh, but he was thinking. Mireille could _feel_ it.

In a flash, he dragged her into him further, resuming their struggle, “You see me, huh? Tell me, Mireille Marveaux, what do you see?”

She didn’t answer right away for all the thrashing about she was doing, but goodness, how she wanted to. She placed both hands firmly on his upper arms and pushed back with all of her might.

“You know what I see?” she hissed.

“Enlighten me.”

“I see a spoiled child. A little boy who’s been given a gun and thinks he has the power to trample the world. You Germans see all people as below you, but it’s your kind that are the sickest of all,” she paused to catch her breath, “ _That’s_ what I see.”

“That’s what you see,” he restated, but it hadn’t even phased him. He launched a counterattack, “Do you know what I see?”

Mireille didn’t relent in her struggle, both of them turning so that her back was now against the wall when she spoke next.

“What could you possibly see?”

“I see a beast of burden, a camel who toils in the desert because that’s what she’s been told to do. You’re dying for someone to tell you to do something else. You’re begging for it,” he said in a calm and measured tone, forcing himself closer to her. His entire body pushed up against hers now, and Mireille finally took stock of what he was wearing: nothing but those goddamned underwear.

She would have been affronted at his words if some part of her didn’t begrudgingly agree. She thought this life was enough for her. Well, the life before Germany invaded. Tending to the farm and caring for Mother and Honorine. The thing was, if she wasn’t doing this, what _would_ she do?

So he had been studying her just as much as she had studied him.

Her silence told him that he was right, and he grinned. She didn’t stay silent for long. Their skirmish renewed with a hostile intensity.

“You thinking quoting Nietzsche makes you sound intelligent?” she whispered, continuing to push him away, “You sound like a cog trying to justify its meaning for existence. Is that how your _Führer_ prefers his men? Fanatic and none the wiser for it?”

He furrowed his eyebrows and glared at her. Invoking the name of his mighty _Führer_ incited his anger, “I am here for my own reasons, Fatherland and duty aside.”

“Ah, yes. A summer holiday then? I’m sure the stench of corpses must be absolutely _stimulating_ this time of year,” she gibed.

“War is war. A passing thing. One should enjoy it while one can. Life is not always so easy,” he drawled. His tone was far too calm and apathetic to be considered human.

Mireille took a breath before speaking, remembering to keep her voice down though every part of her wanted to scream some sense into the man in front of her, “Easy? People are dying, you imbecile. How is that easy? Think of the families who will never see their sons again. The civilians _your_ soldiers shot because they were too weak to carry on. There is no honor in murder. You’re a disgusting, mindless thing.”

He thrust her back against the wall sharply, her head striking the rocky surface behind her with a dull _thud_. She moaned, the sensation turning to a throbbing ache.

“What do you know of war, huh?” he questioned through tightened jaw with another jerk of her body, “You have seen _nothing_ of suffering. You should be thanking us that we didn’t burn your shit hole of a village to the ground.”

She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. He was indoctrinated, and he couldn’t even see the hypocrisy of it, “You sound like one of the members of the herd you so despise.”

His eyes widened at that as if taking account of the unintentional use of ‘us’ for the first time, but it was gone a moment later.

“I wouldn’t expect you to understand,” he sighed, looking down for a moment. His arms still encapsulated her, exerting a heavy and immovable pressure. Mireille could stand many things, but for some reason, this man thinking her simple was not one of them.

“Oh, I understand perfectly, _Oberleutnant_. But I’ll tell you something,” she smarted. He looked back up at her, curious, “You and your wolfhounds are going to lose this war. I don’t know how, and I don’t care, but that’s what’ll happen because it simply has to. God would not let a world exist where evil ever won out over good. And though I hope to never see your face after you leave this place, I would _beg_ for a chance to see it when you finally realized that you were wrong all along.”

He sniggered and bent his head forward once more, “Silly girl, nothing is good. Nothing is bad, either. It is only what we decide it is.”

“You’re sick.”

“And you’re lying to yourself.” She could sense that he was enjoying this back and forth. Her challenging of his ideas. Perhaps it was the first time he had ever had to defend them, and he was reveling in his ability to refute her every argument.

“Lying? _Lying_? Ha! I should have stolen your gun when you were down and finished you off,” she said, half hysterical. This man was the enemy. He should have been put down like the rabid thing he was.

“You wouldn’t kill me,” he breathed into her ear, capturing the lobe between his two teeth. Something in her stirred, something foreign and dizzying. She exhaled loudly, but immediately forced her head back on straight. This was wrong. _He_ was wrong, and she was done playing amongst his embers.

“On the contrary, _Monsieur_ , I frankly don’t know what I would do if push came to shove. But I’ll have you know that I won’t be another sheep for you or your men. If you’re going to report me, go ahead. If not, leave me and my family be,” she finished with a hard shoulder to his chest.

He clearly had the strength to retain her, but he chose to let her go instead. The officer turned and lifted his gaze to peer out into the gardens outside, illuminated by the brightness of the full moon. He was in it for the long game, and tonight had merely been one more blow to her armaments.

He sniffed and shifted himself away from the wall, taking a few slow, measured steps closer to the window.

War had been a satisfactory kind of hell—an outlet for his truer nature. One that he had been forced to keep restrained during the glamour and the pageantry of the days of Hitler’s rise. His life so far had been all champagne toasts, lively dances, and speeches.

A weariness set into his shoulder blades. It was a sensation he hadn’t felt since first learning to shoot a rifle at 10. His body had strained with the unfamiliarity of it, and his father had admonished him harshly when the heavy weight had caused his arms to lower ever so slightly.

“Keep your arms up, boy, or else it’ll be you who winds up on the other side of the barrel,” he said in a low, gravelly voice.

He hadn’t really liked it at first: the tension in his fingers when he squeezed the trigger, the dreadful anticipation of the shot, and the harsh recoil that inevitably followed. He hadn’t liked it at all, actually, until his father loaded him and his older brother into the car and drove them east out of Berlin.

They came upon open land, trees and fields that stretched on forever. Father drove them to the edge of a nearby wood line, retrieved three rifles from the boot, and ordered them forward.

He shot a deer that day, a small doe. He remembered how its legs had crumpled beneath it the moment his rifle had fired. How he had snuffed the life from its body without a moment’s hesitation. And he liked it. He liked that kind of power.

It was the day that he had learned that there was no God. There was only man and his dominion, his strength, and his choices. These things wove together to make up the fabric of one’s destiny.

Of course, he hadn’t been able to express it so articulately at the time, but he knew there was a good reason for the warmth that spread through his chest when he took that deer’s life.

Kurt Bonnet had joined the Hitler Youth four years later when his parents had decided that the funny fellow who gave such rousing speeches was gaining enough momentum within the Reich that they had better hop on the bandwagon. That was 1930, and much had changed since then.

Germany had become a place for the Nazi ideals readily enough, but it was the rest of the world that needed shaping up. Bonnet wasn’t such an idealist as to actually believe all of the shit that the _Führer_ spouted. There was no master race, and unlike the rest of his fellow comrades, he had read the rest of Nietzsche’s work—all the bits that the Party had so quickly forgotten.

He saw the herd all around him, and knew that it was contemptible. He had agonized for days—weeks—over the state of his life. He noticed a couple of lines had developed between his brows one night while gazing over a glass of wine into a mirror along the wall. It had been a celebration for his mother’s birthday, and a whole slew of Party members and their wives had been invited. And their daughters.

Kurt watched his brother, Friedrich, as he conducted himself like the suave and charming young man he was, surrounded by a circle of younger women wearing the latest fashions from Paris. Could he not see that this was Mother’s plan—to get them married before the Fatherland called them to service? She probably even hoped to get a grandchild on the way before they shipped off.

Kurt used to behave the same way as Friedrich. Well, he still did when the occasion called for it, but he just couldn’t muster up the same caliber of performance without a metallic taste in his mouth.

A single question nagged at every part of his being night after night: what was the point of it all?

It kept him awake for hours. What was the point of living if all one got for their efforts and striving was death? Was life really worth living? And did he want to spend it living under the thumbs of a bunch of fanatics?

That night he stood and stared at himself in the mirror for what felt like hours but must have only been a few minutes.

 _Yes,_ he had decided. In the end, he realized his life hadn’t felt real in the salons and dance halls of good company but when he had a rifle in his hands. When he had the power to grant life or take it.

Kurt hadn’t known what to make of war, but now that he was firmly entrenched in the middle of it, he found that he loved every single moment. The chaos, the unhinging, the ecstasy. He loved it all, craved it.

He felt alive for the second time in his life, like every second was being vividly carved into his memory for when time snatched these days far away from him. When Germany would inevitably win the war and impose a lasting peace upon the world. He prayed that would not happen for a good long while yet, but his knowledge of Germany’s might and fanaticism led him to believe the war would be over and won in less than a year. Just enough time to subdue the rest of Europe and rebuild.

And this family—this woman—he was billeted with, Mireille. She was just another item on the ever-unraveling list of reasons why he knew he had made the right choice. He liked her spark, the way she absolutely hated him with everything she had.

Kurt smirked at that.

If she hated him so much, then why had she melted into such a malleable thing in his hands? He would be sad when he and his men were forced to move on from Bussy to wherever the front called them to. What a pretty distraction she made. He would ensure he sapped up every last bit of loathing she had to give.

Shame, she had been one of the most honest people he had met so far in this war, and all it took was a primal abhorrence of being lorded over. He doubted he would find anybody so frank when he returned to Berlin after the war was over. So true to their thoughts.

No, he would be forced to suffer sycophants and admirers. Mother wouldn’t have forgotten that he had snubbed her efforts to have him wed before his departure, and she would have a whole line of girls waiting for him, the decorated war hero. Germany’s pride and joy.

He wouldn’t find another girl like Mireille, which was good news, because she would make an awful wife. Who would want to wake up to a spitting viper lying in bed next to them every morning?

Though he suspected that beneath the thin veneer of hatred she wore, there existed a pleasant girl. Someone who was open to every possibility that life had to offer just like he was. War was only one facet of this life, and he would be remiss if he did not plunge himself into every depth he could find. He would wager she would do the same if only someone removed the yoke of her bondage to this farm and her family long enough for her to realize what he himself had come to know only a few months before: this life had no meaning and they were all going to die, so why not make a time of it?

She had pulled away too soon before he could confirm that she would submit to him. He had wanted to see if she would be so quickly ruined as he had hoped, but evidently she would not.

 _No matter_ , he mused. _Time wearies all things._


	5. V. The Witch

V. _La Masco_ / The Witch

Saturday, July 20th, 1940 - Sunday, July 21st, 1940

“‘Help, Mother Mary, in my sore distress!

Oh, cruel fate! Oh, father pitiless,

Who tread me underfoot! Could you but see

My heart’s mad tumult,you would pity me!

You used to call me darling long ago,

And now you bend me to the yoke as though

I were a vicious colt that you were fain

To break. Why does the sea not flood this plain?’”

❈❈❈

She couldn’t bring herself to look at him as she padded into the kitchen for breakfast. She had originally wanted to stay in bed at least until he left, but Mother hadn’t raised a coward. She had made her bed, and now she would lie in it.

 _Well_ , she reasoned, _he had an even greater portion in making it._

But she was stronger than defaulting to simple blame. She was going to take responsibility for her actions and that was that.

Sitting gingerly in one of the wooden chairs opposite him, Mireille saw they were the first to come to the table that morning. Mother was always up and about tidying or tending to something, and Honorine had the terrible habit of sleeping late, well past sunrise.

She trained her eyes on the wooden grain of the table, well worn and much older than anyone presently living in the house. She said not a word as she reached forward to take a boiled egg and cut a piece of bread. The minutes seemed to drag as she chewed silently, drawing inward on herself. But she knew he was there waiting for her to acknowledge him. He occupied all of her periphery.

“I wonder if you couldn’t—”

His words were interrupted by a loud scrape of her chair as she extricated herself from the table, opting instead to nestle herself by the coffee press. She settled there for a few moments, her back towards him.

He spoke again, a hint of amusement in his tone, “I wonder if you couldn’t pour me a cup of coffee actually.”

Mireille almost turned to look at him. Almost.

“You don’t drink coffee in the mornings,” she said in a low rasp.

“Yes, but you know, I’m feeling a little tired this morning. For some reason, I wasn’t able to sleep. Maybe it was the—”

She whipped around the kitchen harshly, her jerky movements creating a cacophony of slamming cupboards and rattling dishware. God help him if he finished that statement.

“ _Et voilà_ ,” she said abruptly, placing the filled cup in front of him. Her nerves were already frazzled, and she simply wanted to carry on with her day unperturbed. Why had he not left for the headquarters yet? Mireille turned to exit the kitchen, her appetite having left her.

His hand snatched out to clutch her wrist and draw her back so she was standing next him at the table.

“ _Merci_ , _Mademoiselle_ ,” he thanked her and raised the cup to his lips, leering at her as he sipped.

Her insult halted at her lips as she took in his appearance. His hair was loose and hanging over his forehead, having not been cemented into place before his departure. There were bags under his eyes, and she spotted the beginnings of a beard and mustache. He needed a shave.

Something about the way he looked in this moment was pleasing to her, any past interactions aside. She liked how he looked out of sorts. He seemed less like a machine and more like a human.

Their eyes roamed each other’s faces—hers in dismayed admiration and his probing for a weakness. She wondered how long they could sit here, ogling in plain view. Her mind sounded the alert to look away, but she just didn’t want to right now. Maybe she could search him until she found the part that wasn’t a terrible, selfish, petulant man. Maybe she could—

“Good morning!” Honorine called as she descended the last of the steps and entered the kitchen.

“Good morning,” Mireille said back, gripping his hand and throwing it away from her. When her sister entered the room, a sweet smile was fixed firmly on Mireille’s face as if nothing had happened.

Perhaps, in time, she could convince herself that nothing had.

* * *

Mireille had spent the greater portion of the day tending to the flowers in the garden. Kept well, they could be used for all manner of things—tints, herbal remedies, candies. Father had been the one to keep it before her, but when he passed, she had had to call on all her powers of memory (and several books from _Monsieur_ Rousseau’s bookshop) to successfully keep it. It had taken several years before her green thumb had fully settled in, but all of her hard work had paid off.

The garden was teeming with every kind of flower that she could get her hands on. The hanging amaranthus provided a sharp punch of deep magenta to punctuate the softer hues of the purple foxgloves, yellow and pink cockscombs, and purple lilacs.

At the moment, Mireille was in her favorite corner of the garden—the portion furthest away from the house and nestled amongst overhanging boughs of a few plane trees. Here, next to the hedgerows, she had carved for herself a little slice of paradise of hydrangeas. Every hue was represented, but her particular favorites were the fairest of blue. She paid each bush equally lavish attention. These flowers called to her, eased her soul in the wordless way all natural things did.

She had brought a book with her to read when the garden had been tended to and her spirit had had its fill—a work by a Provençal poet that had been translated into French. Though this particular tome had been printed in 1915, it was still in excellent condition as _Monsieur_ Rosseau treated all of his possessions with the utmost care.

Part of her enjoyed the drama of the long poem, while a greater part of her simply enjoyed the descriptions of the French countryside during high summer. These ethereal scenes remained constant despite all of the chaos surrounding the characters. It reminded her of the immortality of the earth, that the rocks and grasses beneath her feet had seen many clashes over what humans had deemed ‘important,’ but still they remained. The earth never passed away. And it would remain for some time after all of this nonsense was over, whether she and her family were present to see it or not. The thought comforted her in a counteractive sort of way.

She sat there underneath the hydrangeas for an hour or so before Rainer’s white fur appeared behind the cover of her book. Smiling, she put the book down carefully, using a blade of grass to mark her place. She wouldn’t dare bend the page.

“Come here,” she coaxed, and the dog rolled onto his back as soon as he was close enough to be pat. Mireille laughed. These were the days of summer she remembered—small moments in the outdoors.

Rainer sensed her affection and wriggled on his back with a grunt. The poor beast panted to cope with the heat, still unrelenting in the later hours of the afternoon.

“Oh, you sweet, sweet thing. However do you put up with this summer?” she asked sweetly.

“The same way we all do,” a suave voice erupted into the space of her solitude, “Lay down and bear it.”

She almost didn’t acknowledge his arrival, but instinct dictated that she not leave her back toward the enemy.

Mireille stood up slowly, dusting the dirt from her skirts. Bonnet moved toward her, and she backed up readily. He had only wanted to reach Rainer himself, though, because he crouched on his haunches next to the animal. Rainer paused in his panting and lifted his head to assess the new presence at his side, but upon sniffing the man’s outstretched hand, accepted.

And they said animals were good judges of character.

He continued to pet the dog on the stomach, speaking words of approbation and ignoring her presence entirely.

 _Well_ …

She grew increasingly uncomfortable standing there. What was she even waiting for? More acknowledgment on his part of what had happened between them? That way she wouldn’t have to say it aloud herself—though she realized every part of her wanted to.

For what? A repeat of the licentious encounter? Goodness help her, she should perish at the thought.

Grabbing her book, Mireille turned on her heel to head back toward the house.

Her movements became more disjointed with each step. No matter how much it burned her to admit, she was disappointed that he hadn’t called her back. She could have pretended it weren’t true if she didn’t have a pitiful sinking sensation in her stomach.

Dinner came and went, and he still hadn’t lifted his eyes to notice her. She really shouldn’t have been so preoccupied with catching his attention but couldn’t help it. How could two people draw so near to each other (unwanted or no), and then act so cooly about it? She concluded she simply wasn’t made for it. Another reason they weren’t meant to exist within one another’s vicinity.

He was the image of charm, praising her mother’s cooking and engaging her sister in mindless conversation about the day’s events. The Marveaux women were well pleased to speak about themselves and didn’t notice her sinking further and further back into her chair.

The man was a _Nazi_. But that wasn’t what set her ill at ease. It wasn’t the way Mother and Honorine spoke to him as though he were a long lost uncle come home from the Great War. No, it was her discontentment that made her uneasy.

She hated that he wouldn’t look at her. At least if he looked at her she could show him how much she regretted his existence. Tell him how much better off all of France would be if he and his compatriots packed up and shipped off elsewhere. That she would be on the winning tide when it came time to drive the wolf back to its lair. But she couldn’t impart any of that knowledge if this useless man didn’t at least _look_ at her.

The moment her mother was finished eating, Mireille stood to retrieve the dishes from the table, preferring to mill around than sit in the middle of the absurd situation any longer.

“Where are you off to in such a hurry?” Mother asked, giggling as her daughter ambled to retrieve the plate in front of her. All eyes were on her, and Mireille could feel her cheeks turning a shade pinker.

She couldn’t help but survey him then; she had to see.

He sat forward in his chair, elbows on the table with his hands clasped. His jaw chewed languidly as his eyes finally settled on her. She could have sworn she saw a smirk.

Mireille looked back at her mother immediately, hoping no one else at the table had noticed it.

“I’m afraid the sun’s gotten to me today. I’m so tired I think I’ll head up for bed now,” she explained. It was true after all, the sun had made her feel a tad lethargic. That might have explained all of the ridiculous thoughts.

Mother put a hand on her wrist, giving it a light squeeze, “Of course, darling.”

Mireille placed the soiled dishes in the sink for Honorine to clean, took a steadying breath, and turned toward the stairs.

“Goodnight,” she called.

Her mother’s and Honorine’s voices responded through the void, but all Mireille could hear was the distinct lack of a male one.

* * *

Mireille had done her best to scrub the day’s work and that man’s image from her mind before slipping into a soft white night gown. Nestling under the covers, she tried to focus on the tangible: the white linens that settled against her skin, the light breeze as it swept through the open window, the sound of crickets singing in the night. She could breathe here in the semi-stillness. Breathe, and do her best to forget the troubles of waking hours.

But her mind wandered that night.

Of course it did—the man who had threatened her and her family’s safety slept in the room right next to her. His head lay on the opposite side of the wall she was currently staring at.

Shaking her head and rolling over for what felt like that thousandth time already, Mireille did her best to remain still. Perhaps she could trick herself into falling asleep by believing she already was.

She slowed down her breathing and kept her eyes firmly shut, forcing only her lower belly to move when she breathed. She would not move an inch, she swore, until the rooster crowed the morning’s arrival. Besides, she could simply think about her chores for the next day until she grew so bored that she relinquished wakefulness to exhaustion.

Wasn’t tomorrow Sunday? Heaven’s sake, she couldn’t even imagine chores! Sunday was a day of mass and relaxation. No shops were open, and the Lord didn’t look down too kindly on those who profaned his Sabbath by caring for the sheep. Honorine had seen to it before dinner that they had enough food and water to last until Monday.

Then she should think on the book she was reading.

The long poem had started off beautifully, describing the fields of Provence in summertime. It had come to focus on two characters, Mirèio and Vincen, who fell in love in one of the sweetest scenes she had ever read. Picking a harvest, they had stared wistfully at each other until they confessed their love right then and there. Their sudden admiration for each other was a bit unbelievable, but the writer had done it so romantically that she couldn’t help but be swept up in it.

Her favorite lines so far had read,

“And so they turned a few more leaves to gather,

And for a while spake not again, but rather

Exchanged bright looks and sidelong, saying well

The one who first should laugh, would break the spell.

Their hearts beat high, the green leaves fell like rain

And, when the time for sacking came again,

Whether my chance or by contrivance, yet

The white hand the brown and always met.”

It was an innocent love—the kind Mireille herself couldn’t honestly say she had ever known. There hadn’t been time to contemplate courtship and marriage (or any sort of dalliance like the village girls engaged in) when Mother needed caring for and the farm needed running. She had reserved that dignity for Honorine; her sister’s happiness was more important to her than any man.

She imagined it though sometimes—what it would be like to have someone all your own. Someone whose very breath brought joy because they were alive and in the world. Someone who watched her every move. Someone whose hand reached out to meet her own whenever—

A pair of light blue eyes flashed in her mind.

 _Never_.

She dismissed the image as quickly as it came, flipping over to fold her arms crossly over her chest.

There was no love between them, only hate. Hate, and desire, as much as she was loath to admit it. Physical attraction did not have to lead to love, and it very well shouldn’t where _he_ was concerned.

It was enough that he accosted her during the daytime, but did his specter have to haunt her nights as well?

 _“Does that mean you were planning to kill me?”_ _he murmured. She felt his warm breath on her face and flinched._

The memory came to her unbidden. She lay perfectly still for a few long moments.

He lay unsuspecting in the next room over. Mireille turned to look at the clock on her nightstand. _One-thirty in the morning, plenty of time_.

She could dispatch him and erase all traces of him ever having been there by morning. She could feign ignorance. She imagined it now: ‘ _How could we have done anything to him, Monsieur? He was much stronger than any of us, or all three put together!’_

She would put on her best look of ignorance and portray the defeated defiance of the French spirit. They would know she had wanted him dead, but she would make the rest of his rabid horde think her and her sister and mother far too weak to carry out the deed themselves. It could work, and if it didn’t, she would pack their bags and move them farther south. Away from the front line, to the ocean. They could go to Spain or Africa if they had to. She could—

What, in the name of all that was good and holy, was she _thinking_?

He drove her mad without even having to be in the room. All because he focused his attention so minutely on her that she almost couldn’t breathe one moment and then acted as if she wasn’t there the next. He had the power. His moves mattered. His acknowledgment _mattered_. It meant life or death. Not just for her but for her family.

She didn’t know how it happened, but one moment she was in her bed tossing and turning and the next she was outside of his door. It was shut this time, and it was as if the part of her brain that governed rational decision-making had been turned off completely. Mireille had always found it easier to make hard decisions in the dark of the night. It was the only place she could think without the consequences of the daylight casting too great a shadow.

She should have delayed this particular encounter until morning she thought the moment she turned the knob and crossed the threshold to see him sit up, knowing eyes moving up to greet hers.

She closed the door quietly behind her and leant up against it, hoping the solid wood would give way and let her fall back through. Now she was ensnared.

He didn’t say a word but instead waited for her to make the first move. It was she who had arrived at his door.

She didn’t say anything either, electing to move instead. She inched her way over toward him, watching his every expression as it changed. First, mild surprise, then guardedness, and finally, satisfaction. He must’ve decided she didn’t intend to kill him after all. She didn’t rightly know if that option had been entirely ruled yet.

Drawing nearer to the bed, it seemed like every nerve ignited in her body and her brain resumed normal function at once.

_What am I doing?_

Mireille stopped, head instinctively turning to the full-length mirror on the far wall. The face there was not her own. It was attached to her body, but it couldn’t have been hers. Not one so full of hate. And need.

She reached up to touch her cheeks, to make sure she was in fact still there beneath all of the lies. It was her, alright.

She looked back at the soldier sitting up in bed and uttered the only thing that made sense to her addled mind, “No.”

With that, she whipped around in a circle of white linen and marched towards the door.

The moment her fingers made contact with the handle, her body was pressed up against the sturdy frame from behind. He had followed, and now his arms surrounded her own so that she wouldn’t be able to carry on without a fight.

“No?” he cajoled, a soft scrape in his voice from tiredness. Or something else. His face was in her hair, and he breathed in and out as he waited.

Her head leaned back in reflex, desperate for touch.

 _Yes,_ but his touch?

What was making her act this way? It couldn’t have been the eagerness for a man’s company; she hadn’t felt a want for that in ages. What had she even hoped to gain by coming here?

Mireille felt like she was standing on a cliff over a foggy riverbed below. Everything was peril, everything was a haze. She had to stay on her feet.

“No,” she breathed. She had meant it to sound final, resolute, but she had barely made a sound.

Bonnet’s chest pushed into her back languidly, buttressing her against the door further. Mireille’s hips eased backward into him of their own accord. It was meant as a defensive move, but now that she found herself here, she didn’t know anymore.

“No,” he confirmed, spinning her around and placing a hand at her neck while he shoved her mercilessly against the door. He held her there, lips hovering over her own, refusing to make the first move. He hadn’t been the one to corner her in her own room— _she_ had started this. He would have her finish it.

A sneer forced its way onto her face, natural and full of pure disdain. That, and an inkling of an ache drove her lips to his.

The moment her lips touched his, his other hand snatched a handful of hair behind her head to drive them harshly together. It was the breaking of a dam—every regretful and shameful thing she had ever thought or felt made manifest all at once.

_“I see a beast of burden, a camel who toils in the desert because that’s what she’s been told to do. You’re dying for someone to tell you to do something else. You’re begging for it.”_

_Dieu_ , he had been right.

All she wanted was a break, a departure, a change— _anything_ more than what she was living now. She didn’t know what that meant or what it would look like, but learning his body would do for now.

She pushed him back forcefully, mustering every bit of strength left in her tired shoulders to get them off of the door. Surprisingly, he budged and took a step back with an incredulous look.

He didn’t have to stand there for long because the next moment, she was walking them both towards the bed. He knew where they were headed, and the smirk that crossed his face was the most infuriating thing she had ever seen in all her twenty years of life. Couldn’t he just let this happen without being a smug shit about it? Of course, he couldn’t. It wasn’t his way, she knew.

She couldn’t stand to look into his knowing eyes for a moment longer, and as soon as they were close enough to his bed, she thought to shove him again, but it was like her body had stopped working. No matter how much the night covered one’s sins, that bed was as real and vivid to her as any sunlit killing field.

He didn’t give her a chance to renege, though. He placed an arm around her, drew her close, and dragged them both down.He was above her—eyes alight and chest bared—in all the vibrant glory of a conqueror. That’s what she had let him become, after all: the victor. He looked down at her, his eyes perusing her with the cold calculation of a surgeon trying to figure out which limb to cut into first. Mireille felt her stomach twist into a knot despite the arousal she felt.

This man had always had the upper hand. He had had it for weeks now. And frankly, she was tired of giving it to him. Even her best and most well-laid plans to right the pecking order somehow always ended up with him on top. The irony of their current position didn’t escape her.

Mireille looked up fiercely into his eyes, hoping that she was relaying every bit of hate and sickness she was feeling with him and with herself. His smile grew.

She couldn’t stand it. She wanted him, but she needed something— _anything_ —to make her feel like she wasn’t completely succumbing to the will of the enemy. She broke eye contact to search for that something, and oh, she found it.

Fast as a whip she snatched his straight knife off of the bedside table and put it immediately to his neck. He sucked in a sharp breath, the action catching him off guard.

 _Good. For once_.

Mireille smiled from under the blade—a creeping, sinister thing. He watched her, his stiff body communicating the caution with which he now held himself. He actually thought she might do it! Mireille felt a pressure ease in her stomach. The world was righting itself.

And then he turned. He cocked his head to the side—stray locks of hair falling over his narrowing eyes—and observed her. He was daring her to make the next move because he thought she wouldn’t do anything.

Mireille scoffed and pushed the bade further into his neck, not bothering to keep her touch light like she had done before. He hissed, and the sound made her legs clench together to stem a surge of heat.

He saw the lust overcome her. Of course he did. He saw everything.

Without a moment’s hesitation, he began to push back into the knife. Mireille relented her grip instinctually, and he surged forward with newfound freedom to capture her lips in his once more. The knife stayed at his neck.

Part of her wanted to use it. To slit his throat and feel the warm, sticky mess spill all over her naked chest. She wanted to bathe in it, paint the walls with it. Leave a pretty painting for Mother and Honorine to see. Anything to make her stop feeling this way—like she was powerless to the hand of Fate.

But the other part of her wanted him to rip the knife out of her hand and smack her for even thinking of using it on him. She wanted him to hit her until she couldn’t think straight and then fuck her until she could again. God, she hated him.

His lips were an elusive bliss, descending only long enough until she relentingly kissed him back, and then they were gone again. He was teasing her.

With a knife at his throat, he was teasing her. Were all Germans like this? Unafraid in the face of death? No wonder they had so easily taken the country out from the hands of her fellow Frenchmen. The French people remembered the death and mayhem of the Great War and issued a prompt ‘ _non merci_ ’ to that of this one, but the Germans were different. Her officer looked liked he was begging for it.

Growing increasingly frustrated by the second, Mireille grabbed the side of his head with her free hand and yanked down hard to the left, rolling them both over and scrambling until she was on top, her arm extended with the knife still poised. She moved it up so it was next to his face, a threatening move meant to warn him to stay still. Then she descended like an instrument of chaos.

She attacked his lips with an unholy fervor, and though he seemed stunned at the outset by her ability to unhorse him, his ardor returned in moments. Her free hand was in his hair— _so soft_ —and her hips ground into his in a rhythmic and primal way. His breathing was getting louder, but so was hers.

She couldn’t control her body. Her thoughts were not her own. She wanted to devour him, to cut him in half and slip inside. She wanted to eat everything—his mouth, his teeth, his cock. All of him.

The hand with the knife began to slacken its grip without her even noticing, and it soon fell onto the bed. His eyes snapped open like he had been waiting for it, and with a scowl, he flipped them back over. She gasped at his quick movement, hazy from the feverish kisses.

He snatched her chin up in a vise and bared his teeth, “You want to kill me?”

Tears threatened to flow, but her body was alive. Mireille nodded slowly. His low chuckle wasn’t one of amusement.

He pressed his lips to hers roughly, grabbed the knife from where it lay, and thrust it back into her hand, “Do it then.”

Mireille’s hand started to shake. She might’ve wanted him dead, but it was a misstatement to say that she wanted to be the one to do it.

“Do it,” he seethed, pressing ever closer. His face was all she could see.

She shook her head, but he still didn’t relent.

“You have the balls to threaten my life but you don’t have the balls to take it. You’re pathetic,” he whispered, finishing his declaration with another searing kiss.

Something was happening to her. She should have been indignant. The words should’ve stoked a righteous fire within her, but instead… Instead she felt… Warm? Her body hummed anew, and a wave of some unknown pleasure crashed over her.

“Pathetic?” She questioned weakly, all sense escaping her.

“Fucking pathetic,” he confirmed.

There it was again. That feeling. It felt like fresh, warm honey was pouring through her veins. Like she was naked in a field of newly-bloomed flowers on a hot summer’s day.

She couldn’t stop herself, “What else?”

Bonnet stopped for a moment, tilting his head to make sense of her.

“What else?” he parroted, at a loss.

Mireille shuddered and swallowed to clear her throat, “What else.”

His eyes bloomed wildly and he grinned like a wolf circling its injured prey, bleeding and hobbled. He liked this game she had initiated.

He grabbed the knife from her and tossed it to the ground, neither of them caring at the noise it made. His whole body collapsed on top of her, covering up every last centimeter. He shoved his lips to her ear and began to sneer awful things.

“You’re a coward. You don’t even care that your country is vanquished. You’re a slut for the victor. You should be begging me to fuck you right now, to touch someone like you. You’re—”

Mireille couldn’t stop the words tumbling out, any concept of right and wrong lost to the hot throes that engulfed her, “Please, I’ll do anything. I’ll do whatever you say. I’ll—”

“I don’t think I should waste my strength on you. You’re not worth the—”

She lashed out to grab him by the back of the neck and pull his face over hers, “Please, I’ll do anything, Kurt. I’ll—”

 _Smack_.

Her mind reeled. She saw dots behind her eyelids from the pressure of his strike. She felt _alive_.

“You are too filthy to speak my given name,” he said, eyes blazing. His hand shot out to ensnare her throat began to squeeze. Lightly at first, then harder and harder. Her breathing grew restricted, and she wheezed for air.

“Apologize,” he grit out. His nose touched hers, he was so close.

She couldn’t breathe, no matter how hard she tried. She looked up pitifully into his eyes and mouthed a silent ‘ _sorry_ ’.

He laughed once abruptly, “I can’t hear you. What a shame.”

Mireille was losing her wits and swung in every direction, landing some blows and missing others. The game had been fun, but she was losing. Badly.

His smile only grew as she struggled, “Now, now. Calm down. If you would just apologize, this could all be—”

“ _Sorry_ ,” she puffed with every last pinch of air she had left. Seemingly satisfied, he released her.

An inhale. A pause.

Then he entered her—savagely.

Mireille turned her head and screamed into the pillow. The pain was unlike anything she had ever felt. He had slid in easily enough, the space between her legs fully wet. But the feeling of him inside of her was pure hellfire. It burned and ached and stung all at once.

His movements halted as soon as she shouted, watching her adjust around him. When she collected herself to look back up, she saw how he strained to control himself. They stared at each other for a few moments, caught in the space between worlds. Half in reality and half in the land of Nod. What they were doing wasn’t fully real.

Her hand reached up of its own accord past the trembling strands of hair that fell over his forehead and landed tenderly on his cheek. His eyes widened in bewilderment, unsure how to take the gesture. For the briefest of moments, she felt him relax into her hold like he hadn’t known he had been waiting for it. But then in the quickest of flashes, he snatched her hand, slammed it down next to her head, and thrust in and out of her violently.

He was relentless. She wished she could watch his face while he did it, but the pain hadn’t subsided. She couldn’t _breathe_ , it hurt so badly. Not knowing what else to do to keep from screaming, Mireille turned her head once more and bit into his arm. Hard.

He grunted in displeasure, but kept up his efforts. She had to admit that despite the pain there was a tremor of pleasure running through her. She felt it was the sensation of being filled up. She felt herself expanding around him, making room, and it tingled everywhere.

He moved his head lower while he worked to latch onto her right nipple, and Mireille moaned. She had to remember to keep her voice down or someone would hear. But she didn’t want to be quiet. The sickest part of her wanted to scream and moan loud enough for all of Bussy to hear that she was fucking a Nazi.

She was overwhelmed with all of the sensations coursing through her—all new, all dangerous. She needed an anchor to the world around her, and so she grabbed his face from her breast and raked him up to meet her lips once more. She soon found that his mouth made the perfect place to moan. He lapped up every bit of it.

He placed his left arm underneath her back and rolled them so she was now on top. She didn’t know there was any more room inside of her. He fit so much deeper now that Mireille had to shove her face into the bedspread and breathe through the pain, but he didn’t give her the chance to relax. He grabbed her by the back of the neck and dragged her back to sit up straight.

“Look at me,” he ordered. Her eyes closed spontaneously, a reaction to the new kind of pain she was experiencing. He let out a sound of frustration, tangled his fingers in her hair, and shoved her face down toward his so that their foreheads were almost touching.

“ _Look_ at me.”

Mireille forced her eyes open. He was waiting for her.

His other hand grabbed her hip and prompted her to move up and down. She didn’t want to move. She just wanted to sit there until the pain went away or at least dulled some. But he didn’t care; he was an impatient man. When she didn’t move right away, he squeezed her hip in a death grip that would surely leave bruises.

Mireille sucked in air quickly, but the same incredible sensation from before took over. Her body responded positively to this inflicted pain, and she dipped her head back to savor it. His knowing chuckle came out as more of a disjointed breath; he understood what the pain did for her. God only knew what that meant for her now.

She spurred her hips into action, testing how it felt to move up and then down once. He drew a sharp breath at her movement. While the burning inside hadn’t fully gone away, it was much more bearable now.

She began to ride him as best she could, keeping a steady pace. His hand stayed in place to guide her, and if she slowed at all, he would squeeze it with the same hard touch as before. It hurt, but oh goodness, it didn’t.

What was wrong with her? Fortunately, she hadn’t a brain cell to dedicate to the task of figuring it out at the moment.

When he tired of her slow pace, he used both hands to navigate her hips up and held them there while he took over the task of connecting them himself. He was furiously fast, and after a short time, she felt it.

It felt like a gathering of electricity, like an insistent heat.

His breathing was growing more and more ragged. His hair fell freely all over his forehead, and a thin layer of sweat was on his brow.

Mireille didn’t know how to communicate what was happening, so she did the next best thing and crashed her mouth against his, effectively cutting off his air flow. She heard him breathe loudly through his nose to compensate, but he couldn’t keep it up for long and soon turned his head to the side to breathe.

Her breathing was so heavy now, but she sat up and studied him while he jerked his hips up and down madly. The smallest of sounds stole its way out of his throat, and his eyes closed. It sounded exactly how she felt, like she couldn’t handle this feeling in her center much longer.

He grunted, and instead of continuing, flipped them both over again so that he held the position of command. Bonnet slammed into her harder than he ever had and placed a vindictive hand around her throat, squeezing only hard enough to remind her that she breathed because he _let_ her. Mireille lost herself to the rapture of it.

Within moments, he was groaning in that soft, wispy tenor of his, releasing himself inside of her. She hummed in contentment, loving this wickedness. She was a woman possessed by something beyond her fathoming, and though she hadn’t reached his same precipice and jumped, she felt pleased to have climbed at all.

He might’ve spilled his seed in her, but he wasn’t done with her just yet. His right hand reached up to grab her chin once more and pull her close to his face. His mouth attacked her, their labored breathing mingling together. He pumped one last time—a show of dominance—and she sighed.

A heavy fatigue overtook her, but first she had to clean herself off. Sweat marred her skin, and though she wished to smell him on her in the morning, she had to get clean.

He was staring into her eyes, scrutinizing every last feeling and thought as they flashed across her face, but she hadn’t the time nor the capacity for any of his antics right now. She placed a hand on his right shoulder and shoved him up and off of her, using his momentary surprise to escape to the adjoining bathroom.

A heavy silence hung in the air between the two rooms.

Mireille took her time washing up, being careful not to make too much noise. Once she was done, she looked at herself in the mirror.

Funny, she didn’t look any different. She just looked like herself with hair more tousled than usual. Her lips were swollen and pink. Dried tear stains cascaded down her cheeks.

_When did I cry?_

A dull ache pulsated out from her vagina, and she reached a hand down to prod at the folds, bringing it back to see a small dot of red.

Mireille turned and stared blankly at the wall opposite the window.

It had been her first time with a man.


	6. VI. The Saints

VI. _Li Santo_ / The Saints

Sunday, July 21st, 1940

“Mireio scanned the fair cup curiously.

‘A tempting offering thine, shepherd!’ said she:

But suddenly, ‘A finer one than this

Hath my heart’s lord! Shepherd, his love it is!

Mine eyes close, his impassioned glances feeling:

I falter with the rapture o’er me stealing!’”

❈❈❈

If ever there were a morning that Mireille should stay abed until some ungodly hour of the mid-afternoon, surely it was this very one. She hadn’t been awake long enough for the full weight of the consequences of her actions to come crashing down over her head, but a sense of foreboding plagued her insides still. Opening her eyes slowly and rubbing the sleep away, she stared at the ceiling with a sigh.

There was no escaping her fate. She had to rise.

She dragged herself up slowly, savoring every last bit of contact with the refuge of the sheets. She faintly recalled extricating herself from his limbs sometime in the early morning and winding her way blindly to her room.

As she stood, she felt an odd soreness between her legs. A sensation to remember her imprudence by. Is this what it meant to be a woman?

It felt much the same as before. Her mind worked in similar fashion, and glancing into the long mirror as she passed by, she saw she looked no different. The only sign of last night’s events were faint bags under her eyes.

Mireille looked at herself, searching for any other marks that were out place—any evidence of his touching her. Strangely enough, she didn’t _want_ to forget it. She might have felt bolder underneath the veil of night, but she had made her own choices alright. And despite any treacherous thoughts, she stood by them.

It was the implications of those choices she dreaded.

Entering the wash room, she used a dampened cloth and soap to clean herself. As she scrubbed, she contemplated.  
How did he see her now? Had his view of her even been favorable to begin with? Not that it mattered, but she certainly didn’t want it to worsen. If that were to happen, his behavior toward her might force her to reveal their coupling to the family, and that was the _last_ thing she wanted.

No, what would be best was if he chose to ignore her from now on. He had gotten what he wanted since he had arrived, no? Now all she would have to do was set about ensuring he kept his distance from Mother and Honorine until his inevitable departure. The _Heer_ had to be going on the move soon; Hitler’s ambitions would not be kept waiting.

She was ready soon enough (too soon, in fact) in a prim forest green dress. It had buttons down the front and long sleeves. It was far too warm for summer, but today was Sunday, and the Marveaux women were off to church that morning. Mireille brushed her hair, which had luckily retained yesterday’s curls and selected a dark brown hat to pair with the ensemble.

Despite taking her time with readying herself, she knew it was still far too early for the other women to be out of bed as the sun hadn’t risen over the horizon. She had better prepare some things for breakfast while she waited.

Mireille gradually paced toward the door and grasped its handle heavily. She stood there for a moment and breathed, her mind running wild with the notion that when she opened the heavy oak, he would be standing there waiting for her, icy blue eyes alight. A madman’s eyes.

She could wait no longer, and drawing a steadying breath, she swung it open.

Nothing. She exhaled lightly and took a step into the hall.

His door was closed, same as she had left it last night, thanks be to God.

A neurotic worry wormed its way into her mind and convinced her he was now standing behind it, readying to fling it open and accost her in the hall. Mireille’s pace increased frantically, and she did her best to keep the thick heels of her shoes from making contact with the stone floor.

She scurried like a mouse down the stairs and into the kitchen, sighing once her feet made contact with the threshold—her new temporary sanctuary. She devised a plan to fix a spot of breakfast for the family and then seek peace in the garden until after her officer’s usual departure time. It was then she noticed a pair of black shoes in the corner of her vision.

Not black shoes, black boots.

Eyes widening, Mireille’s gaze traveled steadily up to take in the form. He was awake, and he stood before her in a crumpled uniform, a knowing smile plastered on his face. Somehow she was able to notice he too looked tired in spite of his pleased exterior.

He didn’t say a word, silently challenging her to break the silence first. It wasn’t even seven o’clock in the morning and he was mocking her for giving in to him. He wanted her to do it again now. She wouldn’t.

Recovering from her shock and rising to her full height, Mireille fixed a cool exterior and raised an eyebrow in derision. She wished to tell him that she would not be so affected by him or their actions.

When he didn’t move and didn’t react, she brushed past him to start on breakfast.

His hand ensnared her arm and drew her close so that her back was pressed up against his chest. He drove them both forward into the long porcelain sink basin; Mireille could feel its coldness through her dress. His hips pressed against her own firmly, and she almost lost her wits in his heat.

 _Not again_.

Mireille spun around, reared her hand back, and smacked him with all her might.

He froze, head twisted in the direction of her blow. His hair had fallen into his face at the contact, and if she wasn’t so anxious to see his reaction, she would think him handsome.

“I will not be your whore,” she vowed.

His head snapped to scrutinize her, and for a moment he looked like he was going to strike her himself. That cold hatred radiated off of him and seeped into every crevice of her being, and she almost gasped at the weight of it.

Wordlessly, he grabbed a hold of her jaw and squeezed until it hurt, drawing her face closer to his. He shook with a thinly-restrained fury and bared his teeth. He wanted to hurt her. She knew he did. And despite her best efforts, some sick part of herself was thrilled at the prospect of it. Mireille swallowed to make the thought go away.

He regained his composure, and with a rough jerk, shoved her away. Her back hit the sink with a dull _thud_ , but Mireille couldn’t focus on the pain. She was only grateful that he had chosen to end their contact when he had. She didn’t know how much longer she could keep herself from succumbing to those wicked thoughts. 

He sat at the kitchen table, spreading his legs wide under the tabletop and slinking back in the chair. Was this the look of defeat for him?

Mireille remained where she stood, eyeing him wearily. Her stare lingered over his open shirt, eyeing the creamy skin underneath. She had to distract herself.

Not knowing what else to do, she reached for the loaf of bread under a cheesecloth on the counter and began to cut with a knife.

“Breakfast?”

* * *

He had left shortly after eating, refusing to speak a word but accepting the food she placed in front of him. She chalked it up to his inability to accept defeat but didn’t for a moment fool herself into thinking that meant he had given up so easily. Instead, she saw how his eyes raked her form and stared at her face when he thought she wasn’t looking. Retribution was forthcoming.

Mireille stepped out into the lane, Mother electing to shut the door behind her and Honorine. They were off to church and were dressed in their Sunday finest. The trick was to keep the dust from the road off of their clothes during the 5 kilometer walk into Bussy proper.

Even as the farmhouse passed out of view with every step, Mireille looked forward to their eventual return when she could escape from the confines of her long-sleeved outfit. The summer heat was already stifling at eight o’clock in the morning; she dreaded the midday sun.

Then it was just a matter of biding her time until the _Oberleutnant_ returned. He would have decided just how to strike at her by then. She didn’t know him well, but she could tell he was a vindictive sort. A man who drew that much pleasure from her discomfort and pain couldn’t go without helping himself to it again.

“Who will we be calling on this time?” Honorine asked their mother. Usually Mother had one or two people she chose to stop in to say hello to each week, making sure to see all of their neighbors at least once every few months. Honorine loved the practice, grateful for the chance to escape the confines of the farm. Mother wouldn’t allow her anywhere with foreign troops crawling all over the place. Mother herself was somewhat of a fixture amongst the townspeople, a sweet woman with a sweet smile who always called with a jar of preserves in hand. Today, she had brought with her two jars of the recently-made strawberry variety.

“Hmm, let’s see,” Mother contemplated aloud. Of course there was no real deliberation. Mireille was convinced the woman had some indecipherable chart that took into account the phases of the moon and rise and fall of the tides to decide on who to see next. There was no other explanation for how a woman of her wits could miraculously pay a visit to every single person in town like clockwork without missing a single one. It was science and witchcraft wrapped up into one.

“I think today it shall have to be _Madame_ Bisset and the Delacroix Farm. We should see how they’re coming along with the baling. Besides, its good to keep in touch before the harvest. They’ll be wanting your help again, Mireille,” Mother explained.

“Can I go this year too, Mother?” Honorine chimed in excitedly. Mireille knew now her excitement came from the prospect of seeing Rodolphe. She would have to play chaperone the entire time, but it was extra help. Many hands make light work, indeed.

“She’s already done the haymaking,” Mireille piped up, shooting a smile to her sister. Honorine beamed.

“Alright then, but it’ll be much harder work than just felling hay. You’ll have to do your part. Do you understand me, _mademoiselle_?” Mother ordered.

 _“Oui!”_ Honorine cried and pulled the two older women in for a hug.

Their laughter carried over the tree tops of the lane, and they settled into happy chatter for the rest of their trek.

Fifty minutes later and they were nearing the town square. Mireille was happy for the distraction while it lasted, but the closer they came, the more she felt her mind straying. This was the location of his headquarters after all. The soldiers and their officers may have been billeted throughout Bussy, but this was where they all came to conduct business.

Mireille’s heartbeat picked up its pace, and she was soon scanning every possible alley for any sign of him. She didn’t think he would have the gall to pull something in broad daylight on the Sabbath day, but the idea that he was so close unnerved her. She couldn’t tell if her body’s reaction stemmed from fear or something much more savage.

She swore to recite 100 Hail Mary’s over the Rosary if it meant she could be free of these feelings.

The women passed through the last block of stonework buildings and emerged into the open square. Some soldiers frequented the fountain at the center, laundering their clothes and shaving. There were no girls to stand by and admire them today, however. Most had been scooped up by their mothers to attend services. Even still, she saw some girls making eyes as they passed by with their families.

Mireille tried her best to casually take stock of the square, letting her eyes wander languidly from this corner to that and then finally darting over the former town hall. The coast looked to be clear. 

_Wait,_ she thought, stopping quickly to look up at one of the many windows of the newly-annexed headquarters building. Something had caught her eye—she didn’t know what, but she was drawn in.

There, in the second window from the right. The outline of a person standing just inside the window frame. She could make out the details of a uniform from this distance, but she couldn’t discern facial features. The sun was shining in such a way that prevented her peering directly inside.

Her breathing quickened. Was it him? Was he watching her?

A few more steps and the clocktower would cut off the sun’s rays to give her a chance to see more of him. Just as the shadow gave her the perfect vantage, the window’s curtain fell quickly, and the figure was gone from sight.

Mireille stopped, determined to see something—anything that would indicate it was him who had been spying on her. She tried to convince herself that it was of no importance, but her skin was buzzing with anticipation. Her mind said one thing and her body another.

“Mireille?” Mother called.

 _“Pardon,”_ she replied, and with one last look to the window, rejoined her family.

There was a chill in her spine that even the Holy Spirit couldn’t exorcise that day.

* * *

The garden had become her haven. Whenever Mireille could, she would gather a plate of fruits, cheese, and bread and carry them into the farthest corner near her hydrangeas. She had often read there, but now it was a must. Her time alone was all that kept her balanced. That, and she couldn’t put down the book she was reading. 

She didn’t really care to read the whole thing since she was solely concerned with the first part—it was Sacher-Masoch’s _Venus in Furs_. It was located in the far back right corner of _Monsieur_ Rousseau’s shop, a section usually reserved for the men in town, but she had been particularly sly in its acquisition. All manner of romantic literature were quite close by, and she easily slipped past the last shelf of ‘tame’ fiction. Mireille had slipped the book into her basket without anyone’s notice, but riddled with guilt, she had forced herself to pay for some other piece relating to botany before departing.

Normally she wouldn’t have been so keen to withdraw such a book, but she was eager to delve into the meaning behind her erratic behavior concerning the German. And if anyone could provide some insight, it was a bunch of dusty novels that had sprung forth from only the most depraved minds of the 18th and 19th centuries.

She had been tempted to withdraw the Marquis de Sade’s _Justine_ initially, but thought better of it, not wanting to give Mother a fright should she encounter it nestled amongst Mireille’s things. Besides, one look at the engravings inside told Mireille that this book was a showcase of de Sade’s more barbaric tendencies rather than an examination of the perverse mind.

She counted it as madness, her willingness to circumvent the law. Her only question remained: was it Bonnet’s doing or something that had been inside of her all along waiting for the spark of a catalyst?

Mireille had done her best to lose her thoughts in her daily tasks. Whenever she dug into a patch in the vegetable garden, she really watched herself do it. Felt the ache in her arm from the repeated effort of every thrust. Watched single grains of dirt escape from the hand shovel. Touched the coolness of the moist earth after a good watering. And whenever her thoughts turned from the present to either what had happened or what could happen, she would stop, take a deep breath, and focus herself anew on the work at hand.

It served its purpose most of the time, until it didn’t. Especially whenever he was near.

Mireille had grown increasingly quiet during meal times, listening as hard as she could to the conversations that Mother and Honorine would draw up about the course of the day’s events. At least if she listened, she wouldn’t be thinking about him and how he sat right across from her. How she could sense the heat radiating outward from his relaxed form. She wouldn’t try to slip a glance in his direction to see what she already knew to be true: if he was looking at her too.

Of course there were instances where she simply couldn’t catch herself in time to stop her gaze traveling to his face. There he would lie in wait, eyes firmly fixed on her own without a hint of humor in them. And when this happened, she was lost in a deluge.

Any ideas or thoughts about him were gone, and all that was left was a need to drink him in fully and satiate herself. But the more she looked, the less satisfied she felt because the more she wanted to feel him. Her mind would return quickly enough, but the damage was always done. She would look away, take a deep breath, and concentrate on her family once more.

It was no way to live.

* * *

It was Saturday next, the only day besides the Sabbath that Mireille had the ability to take time for herself. She elected to tend to the sheep anyway, though. Better to save Honorine the work and let the poor girl sleep in without having to wake up in a panic.

She was done by nine in the morning, and settled in for a light breakfast. She munched at a piece of bread absentmindedly, pondering the day ahead. Luckily, their officer was long gone by this hour. Mireille had seen him through the window opening in the side of the barn as he had strolled past. Confidence radiated from him; she could feel it even from that great a distance away. She hoped she hadn’t been the one to contribute any to it.

She had known him yet he was still so far from her.The worst part was that she couldn’t tell if she preferred it this way or not. Religious dogma aside, Mireille thought that a lover should be someone one was close to. Someone with whom the conversation flowed almost as freely as the ardor in their hearts. Or maybe even someone with whom an unspoken connection negated the need for words. That couldn’t be what she had shared with Bonnet, no.

What about him had so bewitched her? Whenever they met, there were nothing _but_ words. Every exchange was another quiver of fiery darts prepared to loose. And loose they did.

Was it his looks? If she was being frank, they played a part.

But she couldn’t accept that her morals had been so readily cast aside for a roll in bed with someone so pigheaded, so scheming, and so… deranged!

Except, he wasn’t deranged, was he? She hated to admit that he seemed completely in his right mind. He had fallen in with the wrong lot, true, but there was a part of him yet untouched by it. A portion that remained above it all, greater than guns and uniforms and war. Greater than death and glory. She doubted anything in this lifetime would bring his head back down to earth.

She hated that she couldn’t confide in anyone. How she wished Honorine were closer to her in age, maybe then she could obtain some rest from her offense. What she wouldn’t give for a meeting of heated whispers, a sagacious word, or a stern warning. Something, anything to lead her down another path.

_“You’re dying for someone to tell you to do something else.”_

Goodness, could she not seek solace in her own mind?! Would his unnerving presence continue to assault her there too?

With a disgusted grimace, she threw the last of the bread down on her plate and leaned back in the chair. If he wasn’t right, it wouldn’t have bothered her so much. Mireille exhaled loudly through her nostrils.

_What else is there?_

For one, there was a war on. Not to mention that she couldn’t very well leave Mother and Honorine in the cross-hairs of the Germans without a second thought. Who would look after them if she flouted the farm and gallivanted off to Lord knows where?

Although she could swear to the heavens above that she was resolved to being duty-bound, Mireille noticed an emptiness had formed inside of her chest. Like a tightness only duller, deeper. Perhaps it had always been there, this heaviness that told her this would always be her life, dreams be damned. Dreams were meant for the lucky and the selfish, and she—regretfully—was neither.

* * *

Five o’clock, and her mind hadn’t quietened a bit. Even when she had gone to her secluded place amongst the hydrangeas and pulled out _Venus in Furs_ to read the last few pages, she couldn’t keep herself focused on the words long enough to understand them. She might as well have been trying to understand German!

The sun was setting in the pale blue sky, its burning orange glow consuming the landscape. Natural beauty was one of the few things that brought Mireille any semblance of peace, and she allowed her gaze to wander over the countryside as she rested her head in her hand.

That was the single reason she had moved to perch at her bedroom window: because it provided a brilliant vantage point to observe the land. It certainly wasn’t to keep watch over the lane in case of the arrival of the one individual whom she had been thinking about all day long.

And it certainly didn’t puzzle her any when she failed to find his approaching form in the moments before dinner. His whereabouts didn’t occupy her every thought during the meal, making coherent conversation with her mother and Honorine impossible. She didn’t pass by her bedroom window more than once as she readied for bed in the hopes that she would notice his arrival.

Should she have been concerned? Had something happened in town? Were the Germans finally moving on? Would she never see him again?

She hoped to God that was the case.

She wondered if there was a protocol to follow in such a situation. If her officer didn’t show up at the usual hour, was she meant to wait or venture out to headquarters and report him missing? An image flashed of her shouting and waving her hands at the single _Soldat_ on duty who couldn’t speak a word of French.

She would wait until morning light, she decided. The daylight was a much friendlier time to venture into the heart of the beast. If he hadn’t returned by then, she would prepare for mass as usual but leave before the rest of the Marveaux women so she could stop by the old town hall.

The moments passed slowly by. She wrote stories in her head, counted the number of stars she could see through her window, or sang quietly to herself until she grew bored. Nothing brought her closer to slumber.

With a sigh, Mireille turned her head to look at the clock on the bedside table; it was half past ten. She lay her arms down flat at her sides, electing to stare at the grooves in ceiling instead.

It was then that she heard it: boots on gravel. So he wasn’t dead. Mireille choked down the odd sensation of relief that nipped her throat.Well, now that he was home she could put her addled mind to rest and drift off.

Except she couldn’t. Every sound he made as he drew closer to the house and eventually entered made her heart pound faster and faster. She could feel her blood humming through her veins. The thin sheets felt like heavy wool against her hot skin.

Should she confront him for information? No, it could wait until morning, same as everything else.

She lay still for a brief pause, then squirmed.

Without a second thought, she was up and drawing on her white dressing gown. Her blonde hair tumbled loosely over her shoulders. She hesitated for a small moment with her hand on the door handle, but yanked it open and stepped out into the hall anyway.

He halted a few paces away from his door, surprised at her appearance. After her behavior this morning, this was probably the last thing he had expected. A tendril of something reared up with an unholy need inside of her. A viper uncoiling to lift its curious head.

She was in front of him in three short steps, ready to extract whatever information could be exchanged in a series of harsh whispers in the moonlit hall.

With the same blank look, he lifted his arms and held her at a distance. There was a challenge there, a survey of her will. She could hear her own words echoing back at her from his stare, _“I will not be your whore.”_

Mireille snorted. He shot a single finger up to tell her _shush_ over mocking lips.

Her eyes widened in incredulity. He should be thankful she even deigned to appear before him. To acknowledge his existence after what they had done, shameful as it was.

A pause. A breath. A standoff.

Mireille grasped his arms and shoved him left and into the open door of his bedroom. He resisted halfheartedly, using the opportunity to bring their faces closer together. He hovered above her even as she maneuvered him backward, eyes never leaving her face.

She meant to interrogate him—she really had—but the moment the door closed behind them and he took the chance to push her up mercilessly against it, she forgot every word she had scripted.

Neither spoke, and Mireille got the inclination that he was exerting a great deal of control to keep himself in place. Her gaze flickered between his eyes and his lips, unable to decide which she wanted to watch more.

“What?” she breathed.

He chuckled, “You attack me in the hallway, wrestle me out of sight, and ask me ‘what’?”

She remembered herself at once, a wave of embarrassment crashing over her when she recalled how she had manhandled him into place. _Dieu_ , what had come over her? Whatever it was, it wasn’t natural.

She answered him with a quick shake of her head, “As in what caused you to return so late? What’s going on?”

He smiled smugly, eyes narrowing as he watched her. He didn’t believe a word of it.

“I don’t think you give a shit about what’s going on,” he goaded.

She exhaled once and looked away; it was too close for comfort. Too pointed of a statement that called to light the barely-muzzled beast stalking underneath her skin.

Her eyebrows furrowed. What was so special about him that caused all of this anxiety? She looked him up and down for good measure. She couldn’t put her finger on it—it seemed to be _all_ of him. He was a man and a figure, power and freedom made manifest. He was those ideals she so badly wished for but forsook just the same.

“I don’t care anymore,” she sighed, the fight leaving her body, “I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me.”

She spun around to face the doorframe, reaching for the handle. She wished she would listen to her head and think these things through before jumping headfirst into trouble.

The door didn’t budge when she pulled on it and looked up to see his hand braced firmly against it. He nuzzled his face into her hair.

“I think you do,” he spoke lowly, brushing his lips against the shell of her ear, “I think you know, and you see that I’m right.”

She couldn’t think; the thoughts that had just been so well-organized and intent crumpled into nothingness. Mireille could do nothing but stare at the wooden grooves of the door in front of her. The stale summer heat enveloped the room, but his own heat was closer. She could feel him without his even having touched her.

She was on his terms now, and the thought sickened her. How many more times would she trick herself into returning here—into his suffocating arms?

“Turn around,” he said, voice grainy.

Mireille screwed her eyes shut and drew her hands in fists close to her chest. If she turned around, she feared the consequences. Not of his actions, but of hers.

“Let me pass,” she responded, eyes still shut.

He shifted behind her, but his arm stayed in place.

“Turn around,” he said again, the softness in his voice gone. A spark of warning settled into the pit of her stomach, but she shoved it down.

“Let me pass,” she retorted.

She expected more words—some ridiculous string of logic to wrest what was left of her sanity, but he brought his hand down on her arm to spin her around and press her further up against the door. His uniform pressed firmly against her skin, a heavy barrier of starch and fabric against the thin nightgown she had on. It was still buttoned all the way up, and a bead of sweat formed on his brow in the summer heat. Mireille moved her torso left and then right in the hopes that she would be able to find a gap and twist back around to make an escape, but he allowed no quarter.

He craned his neck downward and brought his face close to hers, hoping to milk any excess panic she might offer. Mireille snapped her face to the left to avoid contact, but a strong hand on her jaw forced her to look back at him. She breathed heavily through her nostrils, the loudness of the sound embarrassing her more than the already precarious situation.

“Are you going to force me?” she spat. He smiled despite the way he strained to keep her in place.

“Is it really forcing?” he advanced, watching her expression closely. Mireille’s face slackened, righteous indignation lost. He should not have been able to read her so easily. Thinking back on it, she had given him no cause to ask her such a question. It didn’t matter that there was a peculiar heat pooling in the pit of her stomach or that her heartbeat increased the greater the pressure he applied to her jaw. She would not focus on how every cell within her seemed to shudder whenever he inflicted some sort of pain. She could get out of this still.

“How dare you presume such a thing?” she whispered, jaw clenched in his grip. For a moment he smiled—a ghastly and hateful thing, and then sneered. The hand that was holding her jaw moved up to cover her mouth while his other snatched a handful of hair and snapped her head back, exposing her neck.

“How dare I?” he breathed, biting the skin where her neck and shoulder met harshly. Mireille yelped into his hand, shoulders tensing and relaxing the moment he relented. He pulled back to fix his gaze heavily on hers, “You’ve been begging for it since we fucked last time.”

Why did she so acutely feel the pleasure in her own pain? She had been able to justify her feelings as murderous intent poorly manifested the last time they had lain together. And in the kitchen that morning—it felt like oh so long ago now—she had chalked it up to her body’s eagerness to be touched again. But here and now, in the full alertness of her mind, Mireille understood. The pain wasn’t the effect of anything, it was the cause of her pleasure. It magnified all of her senses and seared his memory into her mind. It made her recall every last minute detail of his smell, his touch, his taste. She had mapped him out the moment he hurt her. She had never experienced anything more vividly in her life. She had had fumbles with other men—boys, really. But their heavy petting and eager kisses were _nothing_ compared to what she felt with the man before her.

Her gaze never left his lips, and her reply was halfhearted at best, “I really have no idea what you mean.”

His frustration overcame him in that instant, and he shoved her up against the door harder, forcing an arm behind her waist to crush her into him. She could barely breathe.

“I see you,” he chafed and bit her ear, “Always watching, always hoping. I see the look in your eye. You want me to bend you over the dinner table and fuck you right in front of your precious family.”

Mireille trembled, an altogether helpless sensation, but one that caused the blood to rush in between her thighs. God help her, he was _right_.

He saw it too, the way her eyes widened almost imperceptibly and her mouth opened just a touch. His smile was the last thing she saw before his lips engulfed her own. He burned her in that kiss, making her feel every last ounce of hatred and arousal he had for her. Mireille moaned but didn’t want to give in so easily. If he could see through her, she might as well make it worthwhile. For _both_ of them.

She shoved him off of her, taking advantage of his slackened posture. He stumbled back several steps, a look of surprise on his face. She smiled coquettishly, and waited for him to move.

He narrowed his eyes slightly, analyzing her change of demeanor. Not a moment ago she had been begging for release, and now that she had it, she remained firmly in place. He straightened with a leer and took a few agonizingly slow steps toward her. The moment he was within arm’s reach, Mireille took the opportunity to push him again with all her might.

He stumbled much farther this time—her actions completely unexpected—and he tripped over the edge of the bed and fell onto the mattress roughly. He stared up at her again, wondering how he could have misjudged her willingness so fantastically.

Mireille sensed her officer did not enjoy being out of control, and his resulting grimace sent a tremor up her spine. She smirked.

His eyes widened, and he stood to approach her with an open stare. He had ascertained the nature of her game and wished to take part. In a moment he was in front of her, and Mireille’s arms shot out to accost him once more, only this time he was prepared.

He grabbed both of her arms to draw her close, but she twisted and turned to extricate herself. Her heart leapt wildly now that she was trapped, and a wild sound of delight escaped her. The noise shocked him momentarily, realization dawning that she was losing herself.

She watched him change in an instant. Whereas before he looked ready to subjugate her to every whim out of pure spite, he seemed full of something else at present. Like lust but deeper. He was pleased.

She smiled at him, an act that felt entirely wrong given the circumstances, but she pushed away those thoughts. He returned the gesture languidly, a sort of understanding in his eye. Whatever either of them had expected of their encounter, this was certainly not it. Pain and humiliation, yes, but not play.

Feeling brazen, she padded closer to him, her soft house shoes scraping along the stone floor. Something had broken loose within her, and it was driving her forward and onto her knees before him. He watched her almost motionlessly as she undid the buttons of his trousers and pulled them down. He wore the same white undergarments as always, _Wehrmacht_ issue.

She grasped his hips on either side and peered upward tentatively. Half-lidded eyes regarded her, and his hands drew upward to slide the large belt from around his waist. He placed it soundlessly over the end of the bed behind him, and then began to undo the buttons of his overcoat just as painfully slow, never once letting his stare leave her.

Mireille peered back in anticipation, letting herself feel the daringness of her choices as they happened for once. It stirred a devilish sentiment inside of her, and she placed a flat palm against his stomach over his undershirt. She roamed upward and came to meet him in a standing position, stopping when it reached his chest to feel his heartbeat for a few moments.

 _Poum-poum, poum-poum, poum-poum_.

It was beating so fast, just like hers. She leaned forward to whisper into his ear, “Are you really so eager, _Oberleutnant?_ ”

Her chastisement spurred him to action, and with a grim look, he pushed her down roughly so that she was kneeling once more. He jerked his shirt over his head with one arm, and braced her on the ground with the other.

“You’ll see how eager I am,” he huffed, “If only to compare it to yourself.”

She liked him flustered. She stared up at him expectantly, wanting to add to the gruffness of his tone. He waited a few moments, thinking she would take the hint, but she only blinked at him a few times, feigning ignorance.

His frustration got the better of him, “Well?”

Mireille grinned, “Well what?”

With a growl, he reached into his underwear and pulled out his cock. His other hand brought her mouth over him, and she almost giggled. She loved this game.

“Am I supposed to—?”

His patience snapped, and he shoved himself into her mouth up to his hips, exhaling in relief. She would say she was surprised if she hadn’t wanted him to act so brusquely. She almost gagged on the size of him, but kept breathing and stayed still.

His satisfaction was short-lived, however, and he began pumping himself into her throat brutally. Mireille did gag this time, tears beginning to well up and fall down her cheeks. She could barely breathe or keep herself from vomiting.

Her entire body squirmed in pleasure, and she couldn’t help but let out a pleased mewl over him, eliciting a groan from him. There was that same vividness she had come to expect, and it heightened every one of her senses. The air seemed cooler, the dim moonlight brighter, and the warmth of his body was like hellfire.

She wanted to take control, to explore with her tongue, and so she tapped at the hand behind her head. He didn’t relinquish the hold in her hair at first, choosing instead to ram himself into her a few more particularly rough times and hold her fast. Mireille coughed a great deal, and spittle escaped the corners of her mouth, creating long strands when he finally decided to pull back.

She sucked in as much air as she could, and slapped his hip in retribution, though she knew it didn’t hurt the same. Wiping her mouth with one sleeve of her house coat, Mireille stood and pushed him backward onto the bed, discarding the coat altogether and lifting her nightgown and coming to straddle his hips.

She _loved_ the way her bare thighs felt against his without all of the self-chastisement and confusion to clothe them. She rolled her hips once for the sake of feeling more of his skin, and he exhaled loudly when their centers connected. Mireille leaned her head back at the sensation and hummed.

She bent over him, spreading her hands flat over his chest and rubbing, touching, feeling all of it. If her hands could talk, they would beg to consume him whole. It wasn’t enough.

She dipped her head down and darted her tongue out to taste his nipple. He sucked in a sharp hiss. His hand came around to palm the back of her head as she ministered to it over and over again. When she grew impatient with that, she elected to nip at the skin just above it. Mireille gradually made her way up to his neck, returning the favor of his bite in the same spot as earlier, but then electing to lick his jawline. She could feel the beginning of stubble there, and her core filled with heat.

He pulled her face in to kiss her, but this was different somehow, she noticed. Softer, more intense. She pulled back, the effect of it sending her reeling. They looked at each other for several moments, breathing, regarding, and waiting.

There was a tenderness she had never seen before. She couldn’t fathom what that meant, and she didn’t rightly want to know at the moment. That was a conversation for the daylight.

Grasping the ends of her gown, she drew the dress up and over her head, baring herself entirely. Her nipples stood erect despite the warmth of the heat around them, and she grabbed both of his hands to place them over her. She melted under his touch when he began to move of his own accord, kneading each breast and grasping them almost painfully. Her hips swiveled once, the pressure there too much to bear, and they both moaned. She couldn’t wait any longer, her skin felt like it was screaming for more contact.

Mireille lifted her hips to see his shaft and angled herself over him, but she held still fora moment. A tickle of pleasure ran through her veins.

“Say you want it,” she demanded, her commanding tone polluted by a giggle.

He lifted his head abruptly and scoffed, but watched her silently, not sure how he wanted to respond. She lowered herself the slightest bit, making contact with the tip but then pulling it back up swiftly. He let out a small cry of indignation, and she smiled wickedly.

“Say you want it,” she repeated.

Any softness was gone in an instant, and his mouth screwed up in fury as he grabbed her hips and pulled her down onto him with one forceful tug.

She sucked in a harsh breath and held it in, adjusting to the abrupt change. It was a shock, but it felt so _good_. Forgetting her former ploy, Mireille bent down to kiss him eagerly. She felt full, whole, and she wanted to thank him for it.

His hand came up behind her head once more, pressing her mouth closer. When they parted, he spoke a single word, “Move.”

With a shiver, she jumped and began to work her way up and down. She didn’t understand how she could derive so much pleasure from having a man inside of her. Women talked, but she just couldn’t imagine. Not until now, at least. She wondered if she would have found the German _Soldaten_ at the fountain attractive if she’d have known they could make her feel this same way.

Who was she kidding? The only one who could make her feel this way was her officer.

Kurt.

The last time she had said his given name, he had struck her. She wondered if he would do it again. And she wondered why she didn’t mind the thought of it.

Her rhythm slowed substantially, enough to where she could place a hand on his face and lean down. He regarded her attentively, waiting to see her next move.

Mireille kissed him delicately and breathed, “Kurt.”

He stiffened but did not strike her. Part of her wished he had.

What he did instead was so much better.

He snatched her hair in a fistful and dragged her down to his side, flipping them over so he was on top. He began to punish her wickedly, driving into her at a breakneck pace and bending over to place his mouth by her ear.

“Mireille.”

God, she could die. She chose to sigh instead.

She wanted more, so much more. She wished she could articulate how much she needed him, needed his touch. She wished she could tell him all the ways she wanted to _feel_.

“Hurt me."

He look stunned for a moment, but chuckled as he wrapped his strong fingers around her neck. It was like he had been holding back what he truly wanted to do to her. She hoped it never happened again. He squeezed his hand tightly as he drove, and a pleased smile broke out over her features. Mireille closed her eyes to savor the pain.

He lowered himself over her until she felt like she was being smothered, his hand withdrawing to encapsulate her with the rest of him. He pumped in and out slowly and fluidly, their combined sweat making their skin slide smoothly back and forth. She had never felt closer to anyone or anything in her life. He consumed her.

They lasted together only a few minutes this way, his efforts devolving into a frenzy and soon after he was spilling inside of her. She hadn’t reached the same peak as he had, but it felt incredible just the same. She would learn how to please herself and then she would teach him.

She did not doubt his prowess—surely there were a number of _Fraülein_ back home in Germany who had him to thank for taking their virginity. Oddly enough, she wasn’t the least bit jealous. He wasn’t very well at home right now, was he?

He kissed her once, twice, and then once again before pulling out of her gradually. Mireille moaned happily but missed the feeling of him inside of her.

She needed to use the toilet and wash herself, that much she knew. Mother rarely ever talked about sex with her, but she had taken the trouble to impart the value of cleanliness before and after the act. Otherwise one was liable to infection.

Mireille stood and reached for her housecoat on the floor, thankful their lovemaking hadn’t been so severe as to cause any of her garments to rip. His hand shot out to grip her wrist, his face half-buried in a pillow. His voice was heavy with the timbre of sleep.

“Where are you going?”

“To wash up,” she informed him.

“Stay,” he adjured.

She giggled, and tried to pull her wrist from his grip, “I must wash. I’ll return shortly.” He refused to release her.

“You can wash in the morning. Lay down,” he implored her once more. A bit of trickery was in order.

Mireille bent to kiss him swiftly and deeply, his hold on her easing almost instantly. With a quick few steps, she was on the other side of the bathroom door. She heard his defeated groan from the bed and urged him to remain quiet. They weren’t the only ones in the house after all.

She emptied her bladder and wiped herself down with a wet cloth, pausing when she was done to look in the mirror.

Funny, she had done the same thing the last time they had made love, and she would be remiss if she didn’t admit she looked sinfully similar to the way she had then. Her hair was mussed, her eyes were rimmed with red from her tears, and she looked a fright. She did her best to tame her appearance, smoothing down wayward locks and washing her face in the tap water.

That was when she noticed it. Something was different.

She was smiling.


	7. VII. The Muster

VII. _L’Assemblado_ / The Muster

Monday, July 22nd, 1940

“And, oh, how painfully, fond hearts, ill fated,

Labour the bosoms by the dank weeds weighted!

Is it the water dripping that one hears

From their long veils of hair, or is it tears?”

❈❈❈

Mireille burrowed further under her covers, savoring the sensation of being a castaway from the world. Here she could touch her lips and remember the way he had kissed them senseless or how he had carved his name into her chest with each frantic breath. It was odd to think how just a few short days ago she hadn’t wanted to leave her bed for fear of running into her officer. Now she wished to remain in place for the sake of envisioning him and him alone. My, how the heart could sway.

Removing the sheet from over her head, Mireille brought the linen’s edge underneath her chin to survey her surroundings with a mischievous smile. It was her room still, yet it was different now. It seemed as though everything around her was bathed in some brilliant hue, somehow more vivid than before. This wasn’t his doing, no. This must have been what it felt like to step into one’s true nature; it was more aligned, more real. Stepping out to follow her desire without reservation had given her this, and now that she had had a taste, Mireille wished to have more.

The sun had certainly crested the horizon considering the pink and orange waves that covered the blues of twilight. Mother and Honorine wouldn’t be up for a while yet. Mireille took the opportunity to rise from the bed, her white night gown skirting the cool stone floor beneath her feet. She padded lightly to the door but paused with some trepidation.

Would he be awake? Had she a right to wonder such a thing? Should she want him to be so ardently?

A resilient pounding sensation caused her to place a hand on her heart.

_Dieu._

It was beating with the same vigor as if she were cutting down the hay for baling. The prospect of seeing him again had her clutching her dress in anticipation. And the strangest part of it all suddenly occurred to her: she cared not a whit.

Her smile returned quickly as the anxiety left her body, and she grabbed the handle to open the door. Her movement forward was impeded by a rather large obstruction though, and she glanced up swiftly.

He was there, waiting for her.

“Oh,” she breathed.

His eyes snapped up to meet her own, and he looked as if he had been contemplating something before she had interrupted his thoughts with her appearance. It was gone in a moment, though and was replaced with his usual air of planned nonchalance.

Mireille peered left and then right into the hallway to ensure no one had spied him yet. Satisfied with her inspection, she clutched his arm and dragged him further into her doorway. He was clad in his uniform, but it was left mostly undone. Her face was level with his exposed chest, and it took her a moment to remove her gaze to meet his own again.

“Are you so eager to have me again, _mademoiselle_?” he murmured, donning a smirk.

Mireille stifled a smile before responding, “Who was in front of whose door, _Oberleutnant_?”

He sniffed in amusement, but watched her without answering. Within moments, his face lost its jovial glow and was replaced with a new intensity. It wasn’t the same as before; there was a softness around the edges now. He was still dangerous and had the power to take everything from her, but he knew she wanted to play along.

She was overcome by his stare, and did whatever came naturally to her. Mireille closed her eyes, leant her head forward, and placed a chaste kiss in the silken expanse between the opening of his shirt. The skin there was soft (just how she remembered it was) and her mouth lingered longingly for a few moments before she pulled back.

She heard him breathe out sharply through his nostrils and peered up. It was a testament to his control that he hadn’t grabbed her yet. Everything about him had transformed into a tightened coil pleading to be loosed.

But with a flick of his eyes to the far end of the hall, he took a quick step back.

“Madam,” he greeted in an even tone. Mireille furrowed her brows for a moment, but whipped her head to the right when she heard the sound of a door closing shut. Her mother stood at the end of the hall clad only in her dressing gown and house coat. She eyed the soldier wearily for a moment before turning to her daughter.

“Mireille, what is this?”

Mireille brushed her question aside easily enough, counting on the early hour and her mother’s addled mind to her advantage. She stepped out of the door and down the hall quickly to encircle the older woman, “Mother, whatever are you doing up so early?”

Suspicion left the older woman like the ebbing moontide. Mireille glanced up to see if Bonnet had gone but was pleased to see him still standing in her doorway, a small smile upon his lips. She closed her eyes to breathe in his scent as she strolled slowly past; she wished to savor him throughout the day’s work.

“Well, I thought I’d ready the tools for ploughing. You know I like to put these things off until the leaves turn, so I decided for a less hectic start this year,” she explained, though pausing suddenly, she turned to look the young officer squarely in the eye. Mireille’s eyes widened at the interruption to their progress. “And you’d better see to your uniform, young man,” the older woman scolded, “If any of the village girls saw you walking around like that, they’d twist their ankles to have your back.”

Mireille couldn’t stifle the laugh that forced its way past her tight lips, and she glanced up to see his own smug look. Nevertheless, he clicked his heels and stood ramrod straight, _“Oui, Madam.”_

She didn’t have the chance to see him before he left for the day, so focused was she on ensuring Mother was occupied at such an unusual hour for her to be awake, but she did find a small gift from him on her bedside table when she returned to her room later that morning.

They were not lovers in the traditional sense. No Miréio or Vincen reincarnate, breathing their soft, love-laden sighs. In fact, she thought they were very much not lovers at all. There were no profound declarations over the hedgerows or hushed words of admiration in the hall. They were an entirely different breed altogether. What kind of breed, Mireille couldn’t quite be sure.

He had left her a book: Rainer Marie Rilke’s _Duino Elegies,_ and within that lay a pressed leaf, dry and forgotten from the summer sun. Turning to the page that was marked revealed the start of the Second Elegy. Mireille read the first lines as if she were compelled by some unseen force, her attention held rapt the to the page, scanning the words over and over again until she had memorized them by heart,

“Every Angel is terror. And yet,

ah, knowing you, I invoke you, almost deadly

birds of the soul.”

Such stark words stared boldly back at her, unapologetic on their white canvas. Mireille pressed a hand flat over her heart and felt it jump at his message. She was an angel, unknown and terrifying, but he called her in regardless. He found her terrifying?

She smiled at that. Surely not.

It was then Mireille knew that he had watched her more than she realized. A great deal more. Her spine tingled at the thought of it.

She could no longer so easily characterize him as a brute—not now. She could not so readily shove him down into a swastika-shaped box like so many of his comrades. He was less in some ways, of course. In others, he was more, but he was never the same.

_Collect yourself._

One poem by her favorite writer and he was suddenly Casanova? He hadn’t left his post for her, nor had he sabotaged the _Heer_ headquarters. He had simply left a bloody book on her bedside table.

Straightening her nightgown, Mireille had every intention of walking over to her armoire and preparing for the day. It was with some confusion, therefore, that she found herself some time later sprawled over her twisted sheets and reading every one of Rilke’s remaining Elegies.

* * *

When she saw him next, he was returning at the end of a long day’s work in the village, and Mireille had to cover her mouth with her hand to prevent a smile. Her basket for collecting vegetables rested at the edge of the garden fence while she worked only a few meters away. Upon his approach, Mireille rose to her full height and put a hand up to shield her eyes against the dying sun.

He didn’t return her easy greeting and instead cast a cool glance at the house as he drew alongside.

“Walk with me,” he ordered. Mireille cocked her head at his odd countenance, and followed his stare to see Mother working in the kitchen window. He wanted to be away from prying eyes.

Without giving her a chance to answer, he turned and stalked purposefully through the garden until it opened up into a grove of plane trees and shrubbery. Here they were fully hidden from view, and Mireille watched him like a hawk. He was bold.

_Has he been thinking about this all day?_

She had been, and now that he had returned, she could barely stop her hands reaching out to feel his taut waist.

He stared at the ground for a moment, seemingly studying the fascinating grasses of the French countryside until he snapped his eyes up to take her in. They stood like that for barely a moment, and then he was smothering her in his arms.

His lips were eager, demanding every last part of her open up to him. Oh, how she wanted to. How she wanted to bare every last nasty part he had etched into her—along with some of the ones he had missed too. He inundated her, and she didn’t mind the suffocation. She yearned for it.

He pulled away just as quickly as he had latched on, and Mireille kept her eyes closed for a few moments as she breathed. He was everywhere.

“Look at me,” he urged. It was the pleading tone in his voice that caused her to finally open her eyes. She had heard him speak in a number of manners, but this had never been one of them.

“What’s wrong?” she asked. She knew something had to be for him to behave so.

He fell silent for a moment and simply stared at her. He knew what he wanted to say, she could tell. He just didn’t want to.

“Tell me,” she insisted, a knot forming in her brow.

“We are to move on.”

Her breath felt like it had been stolen from her.

“When?”

“I don’t know,” he said, stepping backward from her to face the trees, “Soon.”

“Soon,” she echoed, voice uneven. Despite it all, she was surprised at how much it affected her. “To where?”

“I don’t know.” He was growing frustrated with her questioning.

“You’re lying.”

He turned to look at her, surprise evident on his face.

“Of course you know, you’re an officer. You work for the Major. You know everything,” she asserted. His demeanor changed instantly.

“How do you know who I work for?” he asked, voice heavy with suspicion as he stepped closer to her once more, “Do you wish to know to feed information to your compatriots?”

This again.

“For God’s sake, Kurt, I’m not a fucking spy!” she fumed. Of all times to accuse her, he chooses their potential parting. How could he be so blind?

He reached up to snatch her chin in a stronghold and pulled her closer, “Aren’t you?”

His intimidation did nothing to her. Her emotions had her so thoroughly incensed that not even his most threatening show would sway her.

“Is it too much to say that I care?” she seethed, reaching up to grasp the hand that held her chin and hurl it back down to his side. He stood silently, watching her as he considered what she had said.

He would be gone, perhaps within hours, and she hadn’t really considered the notion ofit until now. The idea that he simply wouldn’t be there anymore. From all accounts the war would carry on until Christmas, but even then, he wouldn’t dare to return to her. He had a whole life waiting for him in Berlin, and she was just a farm girl from bloody Bussy.

They had to wake from this dreamy, high summer haze sometime. It appeared that sometime was now.

“You will be leaving soon.”

“And?” he questioned, eyes narrowed.

“We mustn’t pretend things are different than they are.”

“And how are things?” he asked, sounding much more callous than she had heard him in a while.

Mireille stuttered over her next words, not really sure how to describe everything that now existed between them—the hate, the lust, the tenderness, and the agony. After a few failed attempts to issue any sound idea, she decided to recite the facts. Facts couldn’t lie, and they certainly couldn’t feel.

“You are a German officer who has taken up residence with a local family. It was only natural that your pride and your need would lead you to seek relief in their eldest daughter,” she stated. It was so clinical, so dispossessed. She didn’t like the way the words sounded leaving her lips.

Kurt’s cheek twitched, a small gesture of defiance.

“What of the daughter? What did she think of the whole affair?”

Mireille paused, forgetting herself in the torrid depths of his eyes. They scorched her in their intensity, demanding a response—any response—that would give him the foundation from which to make his next move. Everything depended on her and whatever she let fly from her mouth in this instant.

How could she possibly hope to capture all the things he made her feel in something so insignificant as words? How could he expect her to sum it up so succinctly when the things he made her feel were anything but?

He grabbed her arms and with a sinister twinge of his jaw, gave her a violent shake. His impatience was getting the better of him.

Mireille’s eyes widened tremendously, surprise coloring her features. He was impatient not because of his nature—no, this ran deeper. He was impatient because he needed to know. He _cared_ about what she had to say, more than she ever thought he would. He cared about how she saw what they had done together. She searched his gaze anew at that, seeing every emotion she had not dared allow herself to previously.

He was there, all of him. Fury, madness, melancholy, and desire. No, not desire. More attachment, and a stifling one at that. He was bound to her, and he despised himself for it.

Without thinking, Mireille lifted a searching hand to cup his cheek. He relented harshly, burying his face into her open palm.

“What did she think of it?” Mireille echoed back to him, a giggle escaping her lips, “She sees now the benefits of throwing off one’s yoke.”

He whipped his head to look at her squarely, disappointment clouding his eyes, “Is that all then?”

Mireille hesitated at his abrupt change in demeanor, her mouth falling open as she watched him morph.

He didn’t like her silence and swarmed her in his arms to push her back against a tree. She could not think for the way he clouded her senses. He was all she could see, smell, touch. Perhaps she could ask for a taste for the sake of completeness. Her eyes searched blindly upward until they met his, and her world was anchored once more.

“Is that all?” he shook her again, desperation seeping into his voice and stare.

Her hands escaped his confines and glided up to rest gingerly around his neck. She would miss the way his skin was always a touch warmer than her own. She would miss how he always seemed to engulf her like a sinner in the devil’s hellfire. She was consumed, fully and frightfully so.

Mireille stared for one blissful moment, doing her best to capture him in all his vulnerability. He would miss her too, she knew. With a long sigh, she breathed her answer.

“How could there be more?”

The tension in his body peaked, and with a savage growl, he hurled his fist at the tree next to her head. His knuckles made a sickening _crunch_ against the mottled bark, and Mireille knew there would be blood when he pulled back.

Her instant reaction was to soothe him, wholly disregarding her own safety. His heart might have been breaking, but he would make sure everything broke with him.

He pushed back off of her gruffly and grabbed the first thing he could reach—his officer’s cap—and hurled it at the wall of trees. It disappeared into some bushes with a loud crashing sound but his heavy, ragged breathing was the only thing that Mireille could hear.

She reached out to take a hold of his arms but was violently tossed aside. He pointed a finger at her menacingly in a warning to stay back, and so she remained. Satisfied that she would listen, his exterior crumbled and he was overcome with disbelief. He smoothed his hair down and kept a hand over his mouth as he surveyed the area around them.

He looked at her one final time, heaved a leaden sigh, and disappeared into the garden back toward the house. Mireille jumped when she heard the kitchen door shut loudly behind him, but remained fixed in the spot where he had left her.

Tears sprung up unbidden in her eyes and began to spill silently. He had affected her, that much was sure, but was it really worth crying over? She had done the best she could given the situation. She had to let him go. There was no other way. Even if the stars and the planets all aligned to permit their being together—

But they never would, would they? So what did it matter what she would do given the right circumstances?

That was the trouble with freedom. Once one achieved it, they might not like the consequences it brought along with it. And nothing was worth losing her life. Not even a handsome man with a soul as twisted and boundless as she now recognized her own to be.

No, this was the way things had to be. It would hurt for a while, that much she knew. But time mended all things. And if it didn’t, death would step in to perform the task.

That was the beauty of life—nothing really lasted forever. And if she made it out of this war alive, she would ensure that her heart mended to love a great many others in whatever capacity—family, friends, or lovers.

He didn’t really want to stay, she knew, and she didn’t want him to, but the soul was a funny thing. It tethered so readily to anything that would house it, and hers had found a nest in his hinterland of a heart.

She would come through, she vowed, even if the sound of his desperate voice and the look of his pleading eyes clung to her for the rest of her days.


	8. VIII. The Old Men

VIII. _Le Viėi_ / The Old Men

Monday, July 22nd, 1940

“So, when the penitents heart-broken

Sue for pardon at your door,

Flood their souls with peace unspoken,

White flowers of our briny moor!”

Mireille had felt some trepidation in watching him—her current position in the doorway conspicuous to any occupants that might be in the house, but she knew Mother and Honorine were otherwise engaged. Mother would be working at preparations for the ploughing, and Honorine would be helping her along. They knew Mireille had come inside to catch her breath; such breaks from work were quite routine. Her activity, however, was entirely not.

They had had their row only hours before, but she couldn’t let things lie. Her stomach had been in knots all morning, and she had the creeping inclination that she had mishandled things. Though if casting him off made the most sense, why wouldn’t her mind let her be? And so here she found herself, standing not two meters away from the very object of her strain.

He stood along the length of his bed, shoulders hunched as he shoved what little belongings he had into his trunk. Some _Soldaten_ would be along to collect it later, no doubt. His position commanded these few luxuries.

She didn’t know how she had managed to sneak up on him without being discovered—wasn’t he supposed to be a trained killer? How could he let a young woman catch him so unawares? Had their time together removed his mind so thoroughly from war?

With a harsh sigh he slammed the lid of the trunk down, the noise reverberating off the stone walls, “ _What?_ ”

So he had known she was there after all. Of course he had.

She didn’t want to answer him, but her nerves had ignited at the loud sound and his attention commanded it. Mireille did the only thing that made sense to her and drew nearer to him. She was a moth in bright light, and though a part of her marveled at how easily she could be drawn in, everything in her wanted to be close. As close as could be and even closer still.

He was leaving, and she feared her freedom would take off with him, never to be felt again. Would she break under her routine and ordinary life once it was foisted back upon her? How could she bare it without him there to wake her up from her daydream?

A touch of fear ran down her spine. All at once she fully understood the weight of his leaving. Her officer. The man she had once hated but now admired. The single person who had helped her make sense of this world was now abandoning her in it, and he hadn’t even the decency to understand just how much he had changed her.

All of it boiled up into a festering mix of anger, fear, hate, sadness, and desperation. Mireille couldn’t breathe for the weight of it. And as she drew nearer to his stiffened back, she let loose every single nasty thing she felt.

Her fists pelted his back with a fury that she didn’t dare try to express with words, and the room filled with the sounds of her heavy breaths and mangled frustration.

She hated him, oh goodness, how she _hated_ him!

But, oh glittering and naive stars above, how she loved him!

Her realization was not enough to pause her assault, and if anything, it spurred her on to hurt him more. He deserved to have every last ill-fated, misconstrued notion of her love marred over his skin. He would see what he had done to her in the bruises that would line his skin. And, oh God, how he should _burn_.

Kurt whirled on her almost as quickly as she began to attack him, and their hands danced in a frenzy as he tried to secure her wrists within his grasp. Their parrying was wild, but he never stopped advancing until soon her back was against the wall, hidden from view behind the open door.

He overcame her once she was immobilized, and their open mouths clashed in only the harsh way that theirs could, somehow still managing to convey everything they wished to say. Their tongues lapped and their teeth rattled against each other. All the regret, the burden, and the shame. The hope, the loss, and the reverie. It was too much and never enough. They were two celestial bodies falling out of orbit in wild and manic circles.

When they couldn’t stand not to breathe anymore, they stood for a few hopeless seconds with their eyes closed, foreheads resting against one another.

“Can you really just go?” she hated how pathetic her voice sounded to her own ears in the long silence that followed.

At not hearing his response, Mireille opened her eyes, heavy-laden with tears, and reached up to pet his cheek, “Kurt?”

His eyes snapped open abruptly, and she saw herself mirrored there. They were red and lined with unshed agony. The few pieces of his perfectly-styled hair that had come undone shook as they fell over his forehead. He looked as if he were fighting himself. As if the very sight of her wasscalding him yet enticing him to come closer. They were alike in that sentiment, at least. 

He grabbed her around the waist and drew her in, practically suffocating her with the tightness of his grasp. But she loved it. She was where she had wanted to be all along. No pretending, no doing what was fucking right anymore. She wanted him and she loved him and she wanted to stay with him here, forever.

His lips dipped low once more to capture her own. This time it wasn’t so rushed and frantic. He took his time to taste her. He wanted to remember every last bit of her to carry on with him wherever the front took him.

“I have never wanted to know someone as much as I have you,” he spoke lowly when they parted next. His blue eyes bore into hers, and she knew that in those words he meant everything he could ever say.

“Will I never see you again?” She asked, out of breath. Her hands clutched at his shirt, doing everything to meld their two bodies together.

Love was a strange thing—how it gave hope where none should grow. It was a soft, yellow flower between the cracks in the cobblestones.

He watched her intently as he answered, “I don’t know.”

She reached up to capture his face and seared a kiss across his lips. She poured every last anguish into it. With a sigh, she leaned back.

“I will try to forget you,” she began, and watched as his eyes searched her face, incensed over her meaning. She couldn’t help the small smile that shone through her tears at his familiar anger, “But I fear I never will.”

He spoke not a word and raised his hands to cup the sides of her face like she had done to him. His thumb swept gently over cheek while he watched her a few seconds longer. Then, with a final, light peck on her lips, he was out of the door and down the hall.

Mireille stood where he left her, dazed with the weight of it all. When his harsh footsteps sounded on the gravel outside of the window, she raced to see the back of his form as it retreated down the lane.

She knew it was over, and that they would never see each other again. She knew that, truly. Yet still she felt nothing. She was in a haze, one where she saw things happening around her but they meant nothing. Picture shows without the sound. Funny lights on the wall.

Wiping her face dry quickly, Mireille smoothed her dress down and stepped lithely from the room. It was time she returned to help Mother and Honorine with their work.

She carried on like that for the rest of the day—cocooned within her own mind. Nothing was real, and the strain of the work she performed escaped her. She didn’t even look up when a German soldier came down the lane to collect the _Oberleutnant’s_ trunk. She simply wasn’t there.

It was only when she stepped into the solace of her room after the long day’s toil and shut the door behind her that her legs gave out and she collapsed to the floor. She did her best to stifle the cries, but after a time she realized she didn’t have to. Her pain sliced her so deep that when she tried to voice it, she couldn’t make a sound.

She lay like that, curled up on the stone floor and clutching her throat for the rest of the night.

* * *

Sunday, June 9th, 1946 - _Six Years Later_

Mireille trekked warily into the center of the town square to see the fountain flowing freely with water once more. It was an act that had been absent so long that she had even forgotten it was possible. Mass had just let out for the morning, and she debated heading home straightaway or strolling down to a neighbor's house for a quick bite and catching up.

The town was bustling more than it had in the past six years. The war had been over for months now, and everyone was doing their part to restore Bussy to its former glory. The sweeping waves of amber grain were no longer pockmarked from expended rounds and bombshells. The people did not hide in fear from behind darkened windows or stash their extra food in any hidey-hole they could find.

The sun shone bright on the people of France anew. The birds came out to share their gay tune. Neighbors greeted neighbors in the street, unashamed to sidle up for a long conversation, their schedules no longer driven by their occupiers.

It was as if there hadn’t been a war at all.

But a war _had_ been fought, and Mireille saw it—the traces of fear and death that hung on every street corner. Those same neighbors regarded each other warily, knowing that when it had come down to it, they had been the first to sell each other out. Families attended Sunday service minus their sons and fathers.

That was then, and this was their new present.

Honorine had elected to stay at home as she did every Sunday, refusing to leave the sanctuary of the farmhouse. She hadn’t really left since she had come home at war’s end. Mireille had thought she was dead. She had grieved her loss after the girl had gone missing sometime after the first wave of invaders had marched on, and was forced to do the same for Mother two weeks later, the older woman too shocked to repair her broken heart. The only remaining Marveaux girl hadn’t the ability to wear black to honor their memory, each day’s work requiring her to wear her less than best.

She hadn’t really thought about it, how death hung around her like a cloud, stooping her shoulders and lodging a permanent ache in her neck. But when she spied Honorine standing stock-still at the end of the lane, her dark hair now long enough to sweep down her back and her eyes holding a tiredness that only survivors knew, Mireille's legs had given out from under her.

Her body was racked with every sob she had held in since the war had started, and she couldn’t stand up even when Honorine had tried to lend her a hand. She stayed on the ground like that for a long while, her sister electing to get down with her and just _be_. They had hugged each other until the tears had dried on their dirt-stained cheeks.

Mireille had looked up into her sister’s eyes then, seeing all the horrors that remained yet unspoken, “Where have you been?”

Honorine had answered but didn’t give a thing away, “Come on, let’s go inside.”

They walked arm in arm, but Mireille felt a distance between them.

It had taken several weeks for Honorine to even hold eye contact and offer a soft dismissal when Mireille asked what had happened. Then some weeks after that came the start of an answer. The trickle of answers gave way to a full torrent by the time winter came around, and they would spend long nights up in the kitchen sipping coffee and filling in the years apart while snow fell quietly outside.

Apparently the Germans—in an effort to keep their soldiers ‘unspoiled’—had created their own brothels while in occupied France. The official word was that these establishments were staffed by those who were prostitutes before the war, but Honorine had been plucked up on her walk home from town. Plucked up and carted off to a home full of women a fair distance off in the hills.

Nazis came in and out daily, and she began to recognize some of their faces. She talked of escape with the other girls, but they promised she would have her breasts and lips cut off before they fucked her one last time and put a bullet in her head if she did that. So she had stayed. Stayed and made friends with the women and even some of her repeat frequenters.

She hated herself the most for that. That she had let them put their hands on her and then would stay up late into the night to talk about their lives. They never asked about hers; she was a whore after all. What little German she knew was enough to bridge the language barrier between most of them.

It was the ones who didn’t want to talk that she had feared. They came in with their rough hands and callous tongues and made her forget why she bothered to keep on living. She prayed for their deaths the most. The fact that Germany had lost the war was only a minor vindication.

Mireille had hugged her through every story, trying to reassure her that she was still loved despite it all. She didn’t think Honorine felt it though. She was her own woman now—her fully developed body a testament to the fact—and Mireille didn’t think she could take back the damage those men had inflicted during some of the most formative years of her life.

Honorine hadn’t cried when Mireille told her that Mother was dead. Nothing made her cry anymore. Not when she heard the news of the death a boy she had attended primary school with. Not when Rainer got so old he had to be put down in the garden. She had been the one to take the shotgun in hand to carry out the deed herself.

Mireille knew that Honorine’s mind wasn’t fully with her, but she knew it would come back in time. She hoped.

Her own wartime experiences hadn’t been much. She’d had to tend to the farm and help the neighbors like nothing had gone on at all. She’d had to cater to the whims of each passing Wehrmacht member that demanded something of her: food, wool, tools. They took whatever they could carry. She couldn’t wait until she would see them retreating instead.

When the Allies invaded in ’44, she had waited with the smug satisfaction of an old hag seeing her forsaken hedgerow predictions come true. Posters had gone up around town, calling on citizens to arm themselves against the retrograding enemy force. She had ignored their urgent pleas, feeling that the problem was concentrated in Paris rather than their humble country town. Nevertheless, she kept the loaded shotgun next to her bed when she slept, just in case.

Then all at once, they came like a torrent. Germans passed through the already-ravaged Bussy in the same direction they had come, and Mireille sensed the irony at how the conqueror was now turning tail to run. These young men who had first arrived so fresh-faced and cocksure in their line of tanks were now mostly hobbled—whether it was from injury or exhaustion it was hard to tell. She couldn’t recognize any of them, not that she wished to find a familiar face among the deluge. That didn’t stop her looking though.

What if she so happened to lift her head from drawing a cool palmful of water at the fountain under the aged clocktower to see him standing there—pristine uniform torn and bloodied around him? His hair would be unkempt and he might have the beginnings of a beard from days of traveling without provision. He would smell, and he would show her nothing but hate, she was sure.

Their tables had turned after all. She could consider herself amongst the victors now, and he and his had been all but thoroughly beaten. He would snarl with contempt as she drew near. He would wish her gone from his sight, and she would wish the same. But she would touch him. Reach out to feel his soft skin hidden beneath mangled garments once more. She wouldn’t dare to breathe a word, and perhaps her touch would be enough to stem the anger within him. Or at least keep it at bay long enough for her to draw her fill.

They could find themselves down the side of a long alley before any of the others in town thought to look for her. Before his comrades asked after their _Oberleutnant_. A tryst behind ivy-covered fences would be enough for her. To feel him, to breathe him, to taste once more the ire-filled lacquer around his heart.

But would he really be so whittled and rotten? Or would that softness within him settle itself like the morning dew over her?

She simply did not know. And so, a part of her hoped. Shrouded her mind in such fantasies every time her head kissed the pillow and didn’t release her until the morning stretched well on past her usual hour of rising.

Still, she knew time would heal her addled mind. Her officer had been a passing tryst, her first real exploration of something outside of the mundane; she could not help but fixate upon the freedom he made manifest. She would find her own way sure enough; the sooner, the better.

Mireille crossed through a line of bushes that rose above her head where a small opening presented a large enough gap to pass through unhindered. It was much quicker to use this path that lined the edges of several homes in town rather than walk the streets. It could be overgrown at times, but the foot traffic was frequent enough that it always remained passable.

It was high summer once more, and the heady scent of lavender rose from a nearby garden. She could not see the end of the tree line next to her—it seemed to stretch on forever.

Her mind wandered languidly over the tasks that would need tending to once she arrived back at the farmhouse. Rodolphe would no doubt be there by now, as he came around every Sunday. And Monday, and Tuesday, and…As a matter of fact, now that she came to think of it, Mireille found that Rodolphe was turning up at their farm more and more.

He had disappeared for some time at the height of the war when the fate of the world hung over everyone’s head as a great question. Several late night conversations over a cup of steaming coffee had revealed that he had been away to Paris to join the resistance. And at such a young age too.

“That’s because the _Boches_ never saw it coming!” he rounded when Mireille had the audacity to chastise his noble and heroic pursuits for the sanctity of France, “A kid _and_ a spy? There’s no way they would have put two and two together. It was pure genius!”

Mireille had chuckled at that.

Truth be told, Rudolph wasn’t so much a child anymore. His rounded cheeks and creaking voice were pitched in the later days of the war, and every time she saw him (which wasn’t very often), he seemed to have grown a head taller. His arms hardened with long sinews of muscle, and his soft brown eyes contrasted the strong set of his jaw.

His birthday would be upon them soon, his 22nd. My, he really was man already wasn’t he? Where had the time gone?

She hoped he would like the hat she was knitting for—

Mireille stopped her musing and halted in her tracks.

A man was stooped over a tiny garden enclosure, his weight resting on a wooden cane. He was missing the bottom portion of his right leg, and she saw a skinny black strap circling his head indicating an eye patch. A veteran.

But that wasn’t what stopped her, no. It was his shape.

He was lithe, his slender body tapering in the same way that _his_ had. His hair was the same dark blonde as her officer, but it was longer and disheveled.

Funny, she hadn’t thought of him in weeks. And even when she did, she made sure to spit at the ground to cast his image from her mind.

She didn’t know who this man was, but something in her told her that no matter how improbable and unexpected his likeness to her officer, she had better leave well enough alone.

So she did. She turned on her heel to circumvent the line of houses from the other side. It added an extra five minutes to her walk, but she didn’t mind. She used it to talk some sense back into herself.

 _One man who bears a slight resemblance and you practically dissolve into a puddle_ , she chastised. _If God is merciful, that man is dead in a ditch in the Baltic._

He was a part of the past, as dead to her as the hydrangeas in winter. No matter how many times her hand wandered down to touch herself and a set of condescending blue eyes met her there.


End file.
